By the Light of a Spark
by Collier World
Summary: Seasons change. Plans shift. Armies move. As the Varden push closer to the capitol, Eragon and Saphira face challenges they have never dreamt of before. The war will culminate in the greatest battle the world has ever seen, even as Eragon fights his own.
1. Seemingly After Everything

**Curses… I'm just feeling too Inheritance-y. Couldn't resist writing something up. With any luck, this will turn into an actual story, if my original works don't get in the way. If any of my readers how looked me up, I apologize, but my hiatus is due completely to my original works. I have already finished one of them, roughly equal length to Gregor and the Cutter Lair, and am well into the next. I offer my sincerest heart's apology, but I can no longer guarantee anything. Life is strange.**

**I simply couldn't resist, however. This plotline is roughly composed of things that have been running through my head ever since I finished reading Brisingr. I don't even know what I'm gonna call it yet… that'll only come when I actually post it. I don't know how this will be received or how far it will or I will take it. For now, I'm giving the bloody thing a shot. We'll see how this goes.**

**Disclaimer: Sadly, not.**

**Seemingly After Everything**

From the moment she had been born, she had been a princess. Treated as such, too.

It infuriated her. There was nothing she hated more than royalty, and, just to her luck, she was a part of such lineage. It made her want to pull her hair from her head and burn her limbs to cinders. This was not proper action for a princess, her mother told her, which complicated the situation. She was not on the best terms with her mother, either, and after her father perished the affection was strictly one-way and the entire relationship downhill. She started to think it was at that point that her life began to spiral downhill, she imagined when she thought back, but her character wasn't the type to dwell deep in the past. It just wasn't her way. She was a forward-thinker. She made herself that way. Princesses weren't like that. Perhaps that's why she did it.

Her first mate—her only mate—had loved her for it. They were each other's only confidante's in a world full of hate. He had been the sole anchor for her as she traveled between a world where she was shunned and a world where she was grossly disliked. If not for him she may have fled the world. Away, as far as she could go without killing herself. But he was there, and _his_ life made _hers_ worth living. As long as she had him by her side.

It was not fated to last. Looking back, she thought she had realized that the morning before he was slaughtered. Killed, by the demon she had hated beyond any love she could ever feel. She had felt something that morning that made her fear for her very being, for _his_ being, for everything they knew. She could never identify it; she tried and failed, it was near impossible. Eventually she stopped trying, lying in her cell after having watched him die. It was useless; it wouldn't bring him back, it wouldn't save her from the horrible tortures she was subjected to. It wouldn't stop the Shade from raping her mind night and day, searching for the terrible truths she didn't possess to give.

The demon had almost killed her when word passed through the kingdom that there was another dragon in the world. His fury had nearly been the end of her. Only the sense of victory had held her together, through the days and nights where tears fell soundlessly from her eyes with no recognition of why they were or how they had come to be. Her love was gone, her life was lost… but the dragon lived. She often wondered who it had hatched for. She knew where she had sent it, but she knew of no special being in such parts of the world, save for the Rider she had sent it _to_. It would not hatch for him, though… it was impossible to entertain such hypotheses.

Some days she prayed the Shade would just kill her. Life had no meaning rotting away in the cell. She had no magic to escape, no magic or devices to take her own life. She wondered often, same as of the Rider, whether or not she would actually commit the act of suicide if she had had the power. She never found out, and she was not sure she ever wanted to. She was terrified of the answer, whatever it was. She had no doubt of that.

Her life changed forever when she met the Shur'tugal, the blue rider. The battle under the mountain defined her existence forever. The Shade was defeated; she watched the rider slice through its heart himself, she assisted him! The scar rent in his back by the demon's blade was the sign, though; the moment his black blade pierced the rider's flesh, their fates became intertwined… hers and the rider who had saved her, healed her wounds, showed her the way to the light of living again. She knew she would guide him until he needed her no more. That was the path to save her life's memory.

They traveled to her home… her old home. She had no home anymore. He was exposed to the Shur'tugal-elda, her only remaining friend amongst her people. He was taught the ways of the Rider, the ways he would learn to live his life when his Master was no more. She watched him learn, was happy for him. He was one of few who she actually considered friend. Before he had ever proclaimed it aloud, she had been aware of his lust for her presence, known the dangers. It was irrelevant; he was intelligent, and there was no room for error in the war with the Dark King.

When he approached her for the first time with the intent of pursuit, she had rebuked him without a second thought. Had she had a choice in the matter she may not have been so swift, but she was of no doubt that after consideration her action would have been the same. He was a human, albeit a rider. Humans and elves had mated over the centuries of history, but this would not be a union that ended in happiness. He was a rider; she was nothing. Nothing to him, in the end, as she thought of it. No matter the feelings she may have had, which she didn't even acknowledge, didn't even notice, there was no room for his heart's desire.

When he was changed… that was when she noticed she was actually fond of his presence. It was nothing more than friendship, though he tried again, begged, even. She could not, they could not, it was impossible. But she found all of a sudden that she felt quite alone without him there. She had lost her mate, she had been stripped of her family and her distant friends, and now even her rider—the rider—was no longer by her side to help her as she returned to the rebels.

His battle with the brother was crippling for him. He was not prepared, and he fared terribly. She was forced to watch from afar, not even able to comfort him when it was over. She watched as he threw it away himself, on his own… as she could never do. His determination for victory, for others, for the necessity of continuation. It was something that almost shocked her in him. He had grown from his attempts to woo her in the middle of a shielded forest to a never-tiring warrior on the battlefield. Yet he did tire. And his exhaustion, the pressure, his unrequited frustration and terror, were his alone to bear. She grieved for him, for his dragon, for him.

The rider. The rider. Every thought she had dealt with the rider. How the rider would fit into the rebel's plans. What the rider would argue if she proposed a plan of action. What the rider would say if she were to tease him as she had been unable to do before she'd met him. The rider was the future, she knew. She believed. The rider was everything to her life. Her success, the world's success, depended on the rider. Her friend. Her closest living companion. She wasn't simply fond of his presence; she adored it. But she could never let him know that. It would simply make him believe that there were things in her mind that simply weren't. She couldn't deny the sense of joy she felt when they laughed at the same time. A rare occasion, yes… but far from repulsive.

A Shade… there was a Shade. Memories, horrible remembrances nearly destroyed her that day. His eyes were the same. The eyes… they crippled her. The rider was there, he saw her through. He helped her as she had helped him conquer his own Shade. As he had struggled with the raw vision being surged through his body involuntarily from his distant Master's demise, he had somehow found it in his way to distract the demon long enough for her to sneak in her attack.

The Master, her friend… gone. He was all she had left. He had to succeed. She had to help him. She could make only enough decision for him to succeed and come from the other side of the battlefield victorious. Her life didn't matter. His was the only thing to her anymore. Victory had only one path, and it was his to take. Without her.

Without her.

No her.

If there was one thing she had learned in her life, it was that when you truly start to believe there was a happy ending to be had—her happy, the rider happy, the world happy—there is always another battlefield. It was a pessimistic outlook, but she could not help it. Battlefields were seemingly the only thing she had ever known. The battlefield that took her father. The battlefield that took her mate. This battlefield was no exception… the battlefield that will test everything that you have accumulated to defeat the coming evil. It isn't even the battlefield that the final war will end on—it is the precursor, the taste of the power, the deep breath before the plunge.

Yet even on that battlefield everything changed in a moment.

Where she should have been with him. But wasn't. Where her sword blade should have saved him from the cuts of the enemy. But didn't.

Where he was slashed, chopped, and cut.

Where he was kicked, maimed, and ridiculed.

Where his soul was fated by the souls of the dragons to die…

Die.

* * *

><p>In every creature's life, there is a day that changes everything. On this day, everything you knew or thought you knew changes. Shapes warp, memories cloud, visions shift. Friends you thought you knew turned foreign; jokes you may have once told turned humorless. This day is tumultuous for all, whether it be in sadness or happiness, pain or strength, and without exception the day of this occurrence is the most important in a creature's life. No one is able to tell what occurs. It is laid out itself by the most ancient magicks known to the world. But what one does know is that on this day, no matter what triggered the happening, what ignited the first spark, what made the mind bleed… it was the very thing that defined an existence. And it was the reason why everything lived.<p>

For the longest of times, the most terrible of years, she had thought that day had been the day she met her mate. Then she thought it was the day she met the rider.

She never could seem to get it right.

The day that changed her life forever was the day that she watched her rider lead the armies of rebellion against the enemy, fearless, without a worry in the world. Alone and mighty. Alone against one far more powerful than he yet not as powerful as he needed to be… The day she watched him fall and be felled. The day he shed more blood than she had shed in a century of life.

And it was all because of the moment she had played her heart for dead—the moment the sword had passed through his body, twisted, and been brutally removed—that she realized what she had kept in store…

…on the day that, after his body had been pierced, his soul crushed, his strongest resolution devoured…

…the day he climbed back to his feet. The day he refused to stay down. The day he defied the will of the dragons, and got back up...

Because it was at that moment... because of how their eyes met across leagues of battlefield... that the spark ignited in her heart.

* * *

><p><strong>Hmmmmm… I'm not sure about that... we'll see. Yes, this battlefield is MY creation. No, this is not a oneshot. Yes, this is a premonition. Yes, I'm sure you're confused. I apologize profusely.<strong>

**I don't know why, but I always seem to start my epically long disaster-love stories with the non-main character's point of view. You got me. R & R, folks. I'm already writing the next chapter…**


	2. 1: That What You Need

**I wonder who's still reading…**

**Thanks to reviewers: roj, omega, theonewhobreathesfire, and Architect.**

**Disclaimer: Hellz to the no.**

**1**

**That What You Need**

He had walked a battlefield covered in bodies too many times for his age. He was beginning to believe a life of killing would end in a death of living. Whatever that means.

_Why speak in riddles when you can barely understand normal tongue?_ his dragon, his Saphira, his beautiful partner-of-mind, beseeched him. _You speak so much nonsense it is a wonder you can comprehend a voice in your mind._

Eragon knew it was a weak attempt at humor, and although he appreciated it, the wry poke did nothing to improve his mood. Or his life. Either way he looked at it, there wasn't much either way to begin with. The air was freezing, but he knew it wasn't the physical phantom on the wind that was cooling him to the bone. His own mind was the culprit for that particular crime, and he found he couldn't fight away the pain it transmitted to his body in numbness.

_All words all useless. They only mask the truth of the lies behind them,_ he whispered back, trying to catch sight of the speck of blue soaring against the twilight skies far above. The sun sets quickly as the year closes. The wind gets colder about the same time, and then the snow comes. It wouldn't be long now until the very cold season began. And, for the Varden, Eragon wasn't sure what that would spell.

Your _words right now mask nothing of your uselessness,_ Saphira shot back into his mind. He sent a jibe of rebuke back through their mental link, which she ignored. _There is nothing gained from speaking in weak, pitiful terms. I will not spend my time comforting you if you do nothing but wilt away in your sorrow._

She was right. As always. He was hard pressed to identify a time period where she had ever been anything but correct when chastising him. Sometimes, it annoyed him beyond belief had truly daunting she could be in her rightness. At the moment, however, such thoughts would only contribute to his intentional mood souring, and he knew it would serve him no good to indulge in such ways. He threw his weak, selfish feelings and thoughts behind him and struggled to find a reason for drive. _Sorry_.

She didn't respond. He considered the matter finished.

There was something he found disrespectful about joking while walking amongst miles of bodies, anyway. He gazed around, tearing his eyes from the beautiful arc of light in the sky he so adored. Distantly, the Varden mud teams were hauling bodies into carts, sorting the Empire soldiers from the Varden rebels. They were all to be hauled back into Feinster, the rebels to be identified and returned to families, and the soldiers to be honored before a ceremonial burning. It had been Eragon's idea, endorsed by Nasuada, to treat the soldiers as actual human beings. As he saw it, they were as much slaves to Galbatorix as all of the others of the kingdom. They were as much the king's enemy, even though they knew not of it, as the Varden was.

Eragon shifted his gaze downward, into the face of a rebel. So far, in the hour he had been trudging, he had found not one familiar face. He didn't know whether he should be uplifted by that fact or sobered. _Rejoice not in death_, Saphira advised from above, seeing through his eyes. _But appreciate the ability to survive onward._

_When did you get so wise?_

He felt her snort through their link. _Wisdom is gained as it is earned. Sayings are passed down throughout generations upon generations because they hold true._

Despite himself, Eragon felt a slight grin split his emaciated lips. Even in words meant to dispel any misconceptions of her wisdom Saphira had only served to enhance it. For all the growing he had done in recent weeks, he sometimes felt as if his beautiful companion had grown more still. Even the death of her beloved master, Glaedr-elda, had done little to impede her knack for striking up fear in the enemy and hope inside of Eragon. In the two days since the conquest of Feinster she had done much to save him from his own grief in the lonely moments where he feared it would tear him apart.

_When was the last time you ate, little one?_ she asked him.

He was forced to step over a body and uttered an apology in the Ancient Language for the necessary disrespect before continuing. _You would know better than I. I think it was you that ordered Roran to shove it down my throat._

The exaggeration was not so much an exaggeration as it sounded. His lack of need for food had worried many, among them his companion and their closest confidantes, and eventually Roran took it into his own hands and tried to shoot bread down Eragon's throat with an arrow. Eragon had conceded thereafter and eaten a full meal, but only when Nasuada threatened to order him back to Du Weldenvarden. He had felt elven eyes boring into his head through the whole affair, but he had only been able to meet her gaze once. And it was fleeting.

_Starving yourself will only make it take longer for you to overcome Murtagh in the next duel, _Saphira grumbled. She had taken to always exploring only the positive outcomes after the siege of Feinster, and Eragon found that it was well she did so—for he could not bring himself to do the same.

_You should hunt as well, _he advised her, more or less ignoring her statement. _Snow is days away. It will only get more difficult to escape to the mountains for your dinner with the responsibilities the cold will bring._

Saphira paused a long moment before saying, _Do you wonder how safe the Varden will be if they're forced to winter in Feinster?_

_I haven't considered it yet,_ Eragon replied honestly. _We've not been here long enough for me to think about such things. There have been… more pressing matters to attend to. I don't doubt Galbatorix would send Murtagh against us in the fiercest of storms, but an army can't march over a hundred miles of ice._

_Agreed._

_Go and eat._

_Very well,_ his partner-of-mind replied. _Don't dally amongst the dead, Eragon. You can glean so much more from the living, and it is among the living that you are still cherished as a hero. Remember that._

_Always do. Be careful._

_Speak for yourself, little one, _Saphira replied, already sounding more distant. _The Shadeslayer approaches, and you are on your own. _She offered him the mental equivalent of a dragon's wink and then she disappeared from his mind.

Were he in a better mood, Eragon probably would have rolled his eyes. He heard the soft footfalls against the blood-covered dirt around the same moment as Saphira withdrew, and he turned to meet the Elven princess with an intentionally neutral expression. She was clad in a gray shade of leather, not as striking nor as protective as her usual black armor. Something more comfortable, Eragon assumed. She stepped about the bodies gracefully, respectfully, but her eyes stared straight forward in the air as she walked, looking off past Eragon into the distance. She halted a few paces from where he stood and turned to him.

He pressed two fingers to his lips. "Asta esterní ono thelduin, Arya Svit-kona."

She mirrored his gesture perfectly, her eyes locked unto his. "Mor'ranr lifa unin hjarta onr," she replied in response to his greeting.

He returned his hand to his side and they stared at each other for a few long moments. Eragon felt self-conscious. He hadn't shaved since before the battle and he was quite aware of how rough he looked. It would not be unlike Arya for her to criticize him on his appearance. She said nothing for too long, however, and eventually he turned back to the field of bodies, surveying the horrific carnage that the Varden's victory had cost them all.

"Du blödh eka haina," Arya breathed quietly, moving slightly closer as she joined him in his surveillance of the misery.

"I'd prefer if we avoided that tongue," Eragon replied, glancing and catching her eye briefly before forcing a grin and turning away again.

"Why?"

He turned fully to her. "Because you might ask me how I am, and I won't be able to look you straight in the eye and be forced to give you an honest answer." The wind blew chillingly against his body, an omen of his words. He felt her eyes piercing his soul, and it quickly became too much for him to bear. Risking offending her, Eragon turned away briskly. He would have moved, but there was only so much he do without alienating her.

Surprisingly, when she spoke from behind him, it was not in anger or even neutrality. There was a hint of sympathy that danced away on the wind as she spoke. "I mourn with you, Eragon, but this it not the time to let it conquer your mind."

"I am past mourning," Eragon replied. "I have mourned and am done. All I can do now is fulfill the wishes of my master. I will not fail."

The conviction behind his words was lacking, and the moment he spoke them aloud he knew they would never get past her unchallenged. He waited impatiently for the moment she would speak out against him. A minute of silence passed, surprisingly. When she finally spoke, she took him off guard yet again. Quietly, breathing the words barely more than a whisper, she murmured in the Ancient Language, "How are you?"

Eragon took a breath. "I don't know," he replied in the Ancient Language. He switched back to English and continued, "I will not let myself be dominated by grief but there is too much for me to simply overcome…" He closed his mouth briefly, sucking in cold air through his nose. "Too many men lost their life on this field for me to wallow in my own feelings. I owe it to all of them to put it behind me… Yet, I cannot."

Arya began to walk. She was only a few paces away when Eragon was overcome by the temptation to follow her. Together, one after the other, they traced a path between the thousands of fallen, leaving the city limits far to their rear as they walked. Arya opened her mouth to speak, but left it hanging for many a moment before finally saying, "I cannot blame you for your difficulties, nor do I expect you to overcome them, Eragon. I'm sure there isn't a single member of the Varden who would demand such selflessness from you."

_She's full of surprises today, _Eragon sent after Saphira, even though the dragon was long gone. "It's something I expect from myself," he replied evenly. "A red dragon could come swooping from the sky at any moment. I can't have my thoughts threatening to distract me from the duties I am sworn to uphold."

"It is a human thing to grieve."

"I'm not human." Arya halted swiftly, spinning to face him, so close and abruptly that he almost collided with her. She stared at him with such intensity he found it almost painful to hold her gaze.

"And you're not an elf, either."

He had to fight to keep his face from contorting into a grimace. She was perfectly right. "What am I, then? Where does that leave me?"

She turned and continued walking without answering. Eragon stymied his pain at her lack of answer and followed. The sun had already set another hand since Saphira had left, and darkness would soon consume them. Unless Arya had plans for a midnight stroll in the frost they would soon have to turn back to the city. In the near distance, he could see the remnants of an Empire catapult, splintered to ruins and littered with arrows and blood. He resisted the strong temptation to chant prayers for the fallen as they walked. Each day since the fight he had walked this battlefield. Were he asked why he had done so Eragon probably wouldn't have been able to answer.

As the sun closed over the horizon in the distance, Arya halted next to the catapult, staring off towards the setting orb of light. Eragon joined her, comparing the shining rays to the way Saphira's skin glittered against the water of the ocean. The thought brought an affectionate smile to his face, but it was short-lived. No sooner had it appeared than did it cast itself away as if it were a whisper on the wind. After a moment of watching the tattered mountains in the distance, Eragon realized that Arya was no longer watching the sun, but staring intently at his face. He held his own gaze, knowing she would speak when she was full and ready.

She spoke directly to him, her only focus being his mind. "Eragon, Oromis did not want you to forget him. He understood that you would grieve. He didn't know you long, but he loved you as he would love his son. I know this. He wanted you to acknowledge his passing and rejoice in his sacrifice, for he knew it was you and only you who would remake the legacy that he had died serving. If he had believed there was a chance of success in his return to the war, he would be standing here with you, instead of me. It was his choice to go to Gil'ead. He knew what would happen. All you can do know is honor him in memory and take joy in that you were a part of his life while he lived. Let him rest."

A tear rolled down Arya's cheek as she spoke. Eragon himself felt no tears on his face. He certainly felt like shedding them, but his friend was right. Arya was right. There was no need for tears. Oromis and Glaedr had made a sacrifice. It was nothing more and nothing less. They were not meant to be mourned. They were meant to be remembered, especially once Eragon's victory was achieved.

There was a strong temptation for him to wipe away her tear, but as she did not in the first place he stayed his hand. "There were things he didn't teach me," Eragon said, staring across the plains and miles of bodies. "Things there weren't time for or things I wasn't ready for. If only we had had more time… I could have fully appreciated his teachings while he gave them to me."

"You require no more training," Arya said again, under her breath. "Always there is more for you to learn. But what you have already, the things you already know… only those are that what you need. Everything else there is Oromis couldn't teach you. It was on your own path, alone, that you will have to learn them."

"Being alone," Eragon murmured, "is so much easier when you're not." He struggled for words for several moments, knowing she already knew what she meant. Even still, he couldn't let the sentence hang without offering something more. "Eka elrun."

"I deserve no thanks," Arya replied. She turned to him in the wind, laying a soft hand, the softest hand, on his arm. "Only you have made the choices that bring your friends around you, to bear your burdens with you. That is something you thank no one for. And you need not thank anyone for standing with you in your struggle. They are as bound to be there as you. You are simply the one who gives them the courage to be there."

She retracted her hand, and before he had any chance to reply she was gone. He half-turned and watched her sprint back between the bodies towards the town, as the mud teams began to light lanterns to continue their work into the night. His eyes followed her all the way to the city limits, tracking her steps with the care of an eagle. He only tore his gaze back to the long-set sun after she had slipped through the gates and disappeared.

He believed every word she had told him, the good and the bad alike. There was little she could have said that would uplift his feelings as her words had. It was as if Arya had somehow provided him closure to his sorrow, capping it away to be translated into warmth and happy memory sometime in the future, when he had the time set aside to return and remember such a day as today. For the first time in two days, he felt somewhat free of the crippling weight that had set over his shoulders.

Stretching downwards to flex his stiff back, Eragon gazed out towards the mountains. At the earliest, Saphira wouldn't return until morning, at which time she would probably have packed in a good ton onto her weight and would be properly fed for a few days, at least. He imagined that she would not only be in good spirits physically but that she would be pleasantly surprised at his own evolution in her absence. Yes, there would be no shortage of upsides when he was reunited with his partner-of-mind once again.

As darkness shrouded the world, dead silent except for the shrill whine of the wind and the lonely groans of the mud team his elven ears picked up from miles behind, Eragon found peace with himself for the first time in a long while. He wasn't ignoring the battles that were to come, nor the responsibilities or the burden he still carried. Quite the opposite.

Ironically, as the sun had set and cast night's endless shadow upon the world, it seemed to the blue rider that the world had changed its status quo and gotten just that little bit brighter than it had been before.

Taking careful note of his footsteps and where they fell, Eragon stole his way undetectably back through the battlefield after Arya.


	3. 2: Council of War

**My Ancient Language grammar is probably ridiculous. Oh, well.**

**Thanks to reviewers: Pimi, Castaway5, and Reader.**

**Disclaimer: He beat me to the freaking idea! Curse him!**

**2**

**Council of War**

If there was anyone who detested meetings with the elders and leaders of the Varden more than Eragon, it was Saphira. It was only through their link that he was able to fully appreciate the strain her neck undertook every time she was forced to slip her head inside of a tent or second floor building in order to partake in the meeting's events. The only thing she hated more than the meetings was not being kept, so to speak humanly, "in the loop". Eragon shared her need for knowledge, and such was one of the few things that made sitting through the dreary briefings bearable for him.

The day was young; it was still midmorning outside of their large tent. The meeting had been adjourned beneath a tent, outdoors, for the sole convenience to Saphira alone. Staring along the long table near the head of which he was sitting, Eragon could see that there were many an attendant who were displeased with the arrangement. The pegged down, flapping tent did little to shield the strong wind from buffeting them. It was just enough to not complain about, but cold, nevertheless. The sacrifice was made by Nasuada gladly, knowing it would be far less wise to insult the Varden's most powerful ally by making it impossible for her to attend.

The leader of the Varden sat to Eragon's right now, at the head of the long table laid out for the morning's duties. Saphira's head poked through a hole in the tent directly behind his chair, and she was eying the other attendees with the commonplace reconnaissance. Directly across from Eragon sat Jörmunder, the Commander of the Varden's Army. Next to him sat Roran, followed by a number of minor commanders Eragon didn't recognize. Arya sat immediately to Eragon's left, followed by Kagran, the Dwarven representative. Garzhvog, the Kull leader of the Urgals, was next, fierce and giant at the table, looked on with fear by many of the soldiers across from him. Selentan, a royal delegate of Surda, was the remaining attendee at the far reach of the table. The Council of Elders was, to Eragon's utter delight, not present.

"Good morning," Nasuada echoed down the table, and like wildfire in reverse other conversations halted mid-word. "Thank you all for attending. The purpose of this meeting is to outline the current strength of the army and write a contingency plan for the coming weeks and months. As I'm sure you're all dreadfully aware of, winter has begun its approach, and we must move quickly if we decide we are at a disadvantage where we stand as of now. Our objective today is to decide how we will face the cold season and assess what difficulties both ourselves and the Empire's Army will be facing in those months. Jörmunder."

"Thank you, my Lady," Jörmunder said, leaning against the table slightly so that all assembled could hear him, yet somehow managing to stay situated completely upright, tall and fantastically sturdy. "Feinster has been completely secured. All prisoners of war secured in the siege have been detained in proper conditions. Casualties in the attack were heavy and, though tragic, not unexpected. Roughly one-half of the Varden Army is on-scene here, another quarter en route from Surda and the remaining fourth remaining inside of Surda. With three quarters of our army stationed in Feinster at the beginning of the winter season, I believe our forces would be too densely concentrated. If there were any possibility of an Empire attack, I believe they could wipe out too many of us in a direct strike."

"What is your idea to prevent that situation?" Kragan the dwarf growled from down the table, harsh words spoken only because of his gruff voice.

"Disperse the troops in a tactically advantageous move," Jörmunder answered. He reached for a large map resting against his chair leg and unfurled it onto the table between himself and the dwarf, large enough so it encompassed at least a fifth of the tabletop's area and so all could see it. He rested his finger on the dot marked as Feinster in the southwest corner of the map. "If we were to move quickly, swiftly, we could conquer Belatona by the Lake Leona the same as we laid siege to Feinster. Belatona is the only defense the Empire has before Dras-Leona, and Dras-Leona is the only fortress that lies between here and Urû'baen. If Belatona were to fall quick enough, along with the substantial amount of Empire soldiers currently sheltered there, we could make a push to secure Dras-Leona before the winter is upon us. Once the warm season returns, we would be in perfect position to assault the capital."

_He plans radically_, Saphira noted to Eragon. _He has great faith in the Varden's soldiers to succeed in a struggle of will._

_What do you think of his actual plan?_

_I'm not sure_, she replied. _There are too many holes, too much speculation. I don't like the uncertainty. If they are not sure without a doubt of the exact numbers of the army between their current position and their goal, I fear Galbatorix could plant reinforcements and beat us whilst cowering a hundred leagues away._

"That would be foolish," Kragan retorted. Eragon felt Saphira's approval of his words. "Half of Galbatorix's army lies between here and Dras-Leona. What's left is either dead on your battlefield or cowering in the capital. You don't have the manpower to defeat the Empire's Army in the cold of autumn."

Eragon glanced at Arya to assess how she felt on the proposal and saw she was staring at a different portion of the map. He looked away, knowing exactly where she was transfixed and not wanting to disturb her thoughts. He felt her eyes snap towards him a moment after he looked away, but his attention was already back on the conversation at hand.

"Our numbers differentiate by only a slim margin," Jörmunder said, directly addressing Kragan. "The Empire may have greater weapons and an advantage in training, but our men can stand head-to-head with them in a fight of wills, which such a battle as this will no-doubt be. I have the fullest confidence in them for that. What disadvantage we have physically will be made up for by our spellcasters and our dragon rider."

"They have a rider, too," a Varden commander Eragon didn't recognize spoke up. Eragon felt a deep growl emanate from Saphira's belly and he counseled her to silence.

"Not to mention the spellcasters Galbatorix could have sent from the capital upon the Feinster defeat," Kragan agreed.

"I would choose our spellcasters over their spellcasters any day," Jörmunder argued. He was referring Eragon's guard of thirteen elves, obviously, even though they were not strictly under service to the Varden. Arya fidgeted to his left at the commander's words, but she remained silent.

"I'm afraid I'm seeing a number of reasons to support both sides of the argument," Nasuada spoke. Her voice carried down the table with regality Eragon admired. "There is great risk involved in order for your plan to succeed, Commander, but there would also be tremendous gain if we were to be triumphant." She paused for a moment. "What are your thoughts on the plan, Roran?"

Eragon thought it strange she would directly ask for the opinion of an inferior soldier to Jörmunder, at least so early in the meeting. From the brief look of surprise on his cousin's face, Roran was just as confused as he was. "My Lady, Feinster is too small and exposed on the coastline for us to risk holding our complement here for the winter. I believe that if Belatona could be commandeered before the snowstorms set in it would be a great victory for the Varden."

"Thank you, Captain, but I was actually hoping you'd express your opinion on the action plan."

_She's asking him this in front of Jörmunder_, Eragon conveyed to Saphira.

_Yes_, Saphira agreed. Through her mind, Eragon caught a brief flash of memory, the day he swore his fealty to Nasuada. _Perhaps she is inclined to see just how noble to their commanders her troops are. We have never known her to be against usurping authority and loyalty unsworn to her._

_But she does so whilst the commander is standing not four arms away?_

Roran looked extremely uncomfortable, and Eragon saw the restraint he used not to look at Jörmunder. He had never known Roran to surrender to higher authority, especially after all that had occurred since their separate departures from Carvahall. "I… My Lady, I believe that Dras-Leona is out of our reach. Despite the number of troops already in Belatona, I believe the Empire will hold the larger city like a fortress. If we take Belatona, we would be trapped until winter's end in that city. The snows and frost would prevent widespread movement and without the usual Empire trade routes that come from the heavy stocks in Dras-Leona would be cut off."

"So you would advise against it?" Nasuada clarified.

"Yes, My Lady."

"Thank you, Captain."

To Eragon's utter shock, Saphira's confusion, and their own dismay, she proceeded to ask the other human commanders how they felt about the plan. They, unlike Roran, could feel Jörmunder's power and frustration radiating down the table, and they weren't as keen to challenge it. One by one, they feebly voiced their support for the idea. Reaching into their minds, a violation he tolerated only because they could not sense it, Eragon found that less than half of them truly felt strong about the weakly-detailed outline.

_It's like she's intentionally setting them against their commander,_ Eragon conveyed to Saphira. _Why? What has she to gain by this?_

_Perhaps she is trying to discover who is loyal to the Varden and who is loyal to Jörmunder_, she answered, turning her words over carefully in the confines of their minds. _I cannot believe she would only be looking for more opinions. Some of these foolish younglings have only battled from behind an archer's turret. They have no more to offer for her consideration than your cousin's mate._

_I hope that was meant kindly._

_I also find it strange that she hasn't asked you or Arya on your thoughts yet. You would have the first I would seek counsel with in an engagement such as this._

Eragon felt the tiniest of smiles tug at his lips. _Well, maybe if I were linked to Nasuada instead of you she would be so inclined to seek my immediate advice on every little thing she does._

_That's not funny, little one,_ Saphira replied indignantly, her calm mind betraying the sternness she supplied in voice.

Eragon turned his peaceful expression down the table and unexpectedly caught Arya's eye. She looked to him in uncertainty, and he reached out his mind to her. _What troubles you, Svit-kona?_

_Nothing_, Arya answered. Her mind, as always, seemed to Eragon as a beautiful paradise and cold prison at the same time. _I was simply curious as to what you and Saphira are discussing._

Marveling that she knew them well enough to sense their communication without being telepathically linked, he gave her a simple explanation of their forebodings based on Nasuada's actions. _If she is trying to separate the allegiances of Jörmunder and herself I would think she would do it in a much more private, less audacious manner._

_I believe she is sending a message to the commanders, _Arya replied quietly. She seemed momentarily distant.

_What kind of a message?_

_I'm not sure yet,_ Arya said. _But I trust we will know very well by the time this meeting is adjourned_.

_What do you mean by that?_

_We will see_. There was a soft glint in her eye, but Eragon couldn't put an emotional definition on it. She turned her head away, staring at the other members of the assembly. _It is worth noting that the Elders are not present. Whether that was by design or advantageous coincidence I know not._

_I don't mind_, Eragon replied. Arya was no stranger to the widespread dislike of the Council of Elders. _Were they here, anyway, Nasuada wouldn't get in a word for all of their selfish squeaking and bickering._

Something akin to humor sparked briefly in her mind. _You wouldn't speak of them so were they present._

_They're not present_, he replied. He resisted conjuring mental images of them tripping and falling into the mud on the way, and added, _It's just you and me. If they had the ability to read minds, I'd actually fear them._

_It would due you well to at least treat them with some sense of respect…_

_They'd be too busy mating egos with one another to notice my undying love_. Both corners of her mouth twitched at his words, a rare feat indeed. He couldn't help but grin as he watched her physically combat the expression threatening to appear on her face.

_That is not funny_, she protested herself.

_I agree_, Saphira rumbled from the backgrounds of their conversation. Eragon jumped mentally; embarrassingly, he had somehow forgot his partner-of-mind was present. Arya, on the other hand, brought a hand slowly to her mouth to contain her amusement. _You forget half your mind, little one?_

_I was distracted_, Eragon retorted.

"Eragon!"

The rider snapped his head back to the table to find almost all in congregation staring at him. Nasuada was glaring, and he realized that he hadn't responded to multiple calls of his name. With no small amount of horror, he looked back a few seconds in his mind and found he had been staring directly at Arya. Thankfully, his friend hadn't seemed to notice, focused as she was on not laughing. Saphira chuckled in his mind as Arya withdrew, his dragon breathing, _Evidently_.

"I beg forgiveness, my Lady," Eragon spoke to Nasuada, bowing slightly, offering no explanation.

Nasuada held her glare of disapproval for a long moment, sinking in the shame. Eragon felt none himself, but Saphira's continued amusement annoyed him to no end. Arya was looking resolutely away from him now, and he couldn't tell whether she was still fighting her smiles or not. "I was inquiring on how you felt about Jörmunder's proposal."

Eragon blinked, stumbling for a moment before looking to the map on his table. "The proposal," he repeated, orienting himself and quickly forming his own opinion. Arya turned back to look at him. All traces of humor were gone from her face; the cold concentration he was so familiar with had returned. Eragon gave his mind precious few seconds to consider, but when he had decided he felt confident in his prediction. "My Lady, I believe that the Varden do not have the capability to take two cities in less than a month before the snow arrives, even this far south."

"Why do you think this?" Jörmunder demanded. His voice was less than friendly.

He confirmed that Saphira shared optimism for his side of the argument, and then continued. "The Empire knows that Feinster is our base camp now. They won't be able to retake short of sending every last soldier they have, and the elven incursion on their northern territories will restrict them from that. Belatona, on the other hand, is already fortified. They're already reinforcing the walls and towers, as we speak, probably. Dras-Leona is probably just as armed. Neither city can be taken in a straight assault, our forces pressed with rank of numbers against theirs. It's not a feasible situation."

"You do not believe, even with you and Saphira leading, that we can capture Belatona?" Nasuada wondered aloud.

"Belatona, _perhaps_, My Lady," Eragon continued, climbing to his feet and running directing fingers over the map as he spoke. The majority of eyes at the table followed his hands as they darted to outline his thoughts. "But to assume we could just march right through and pave over Dras-Leona without a second thought, as well, is ridiculous at the least. If Belatona falls, Galbatorix will forget about the elves and focus everything on preventing the Varden from coming any closer."

"Why would he do that?" Jörmunder argued.

"Because I'm with the Varden," Eragon replied, his voice completely even. "If I were in his position, every move I made would be based on the positionings of the dragon rider."

"If _you_ were in his position, yes," Jörmunder countered. Their voices were escalating. "But _you're_ not, and we all pray you never will be. The war would have been for nothing and we'd all be fighting over the same rights and freedoms."

Saphira growled, and Nasuada climbed quickly to her feet, throwing up hands across the table between the two men. "Gentlemen, there is no need for these—"

"Galbatorix has more to fear from one dragon and its rider than a legion of elves. Eragon is not wrong." Eragon suppressed his surprise and manage to keep his eyes away from Arya. Her words were quiet, but they cut into and through Nasuada's so fiercely that all at the table caught them without mistake. Nasuada, also to Eragon's surprise, showed not a hint of irritation or astonishment at being interrupted so blatantly.

_Politics are at work here,_ Saphira acknowledged, and he nodded only to her. He only now realized he was on his feet, but the discussion had escalated out of his region.

Jörmunder glared viciously at Arya, who didn't react, and barked, "I wait to see _your_ ideas come to the table."

It was a clear challenge, but Arya didn't even raise an eyebrow. Only a hand, waving briefly towards Eragon. "I'm sure the Shadeslayer had something in mind."

The heads of the attendees swung once again in Eragon's direction. Jörmunder's eyes bore a fiery hold in his face. Nasuada's encouraged him to speak. He pointed down at the map again. "Belatona is the first step in my plan, too, but victory is not achieved in the same way." He pointed to a narrow line that ran next to and south from Belatona. "The Jiet River. There are only two bridges near Belatona that are safe for crossing and maintaining the city's trade routes. Also the Empire's supply lines for its complement in the city. If you took out those lines, the Empire would have to ship everything over Lake Leona if they wanted to hold the city. The river is too deep to ford, so if you destroy the bridges, which would be a simple task for my guard, and all land contact with the city would be cut off from the Empire."

"What would that accomplish?" the dwarf Kargan asked. "You said yourself, Argetlam, the Empire could just relay troops across the lake. And if we are to move troops forward to Dras-Leona and Urû'baen, we will need those bridges."

"Not if we starve Belatona," Eragon said. "How many ships are there in Dras-Leona capable of holding supply lines for an entire army regiment?"

The table went silent abruptly. Even Jörmunder had to concede the point. Leona was a lake, not an ocean, one that bordered the Spine, in addition. There was little need to ferry things across. The answer to Eragon's question was not many. And the table knew it. Roran meshed his fingers together and said, "So what is it you propose?"

"Hold our position here in Feinster after winter begins. My guard will destroy the bridges, and I'll cast spells along the river to prevent it from freezing over. Any ships in Dras-Leona that could be used to ferry supplies can be taken out by Saphira and I with little opposition if it happens in the night when they're not expecting an attack. Let them starve for a while, a few months, and by the time the blizzards come in full force they won't be prepared to put up a fight. We can march into Belatona free of casualties."

"There are monstrous holes, Shadeslayer," Jörmunder said. "Those blizzards would make it extremely difficult for our troops to cross the distance between the two cities as well as limit the Empire soldiers."

"And Galbatorix is no fool," Nasuada added. "He _will_ realize what we are doing, and make every effort to stop us."

"By then it'll be too late," Eragon explained. "Winter is less than a month away. The snow will arrive in weeks. The elves are in Gil'ead, and they will distract the king long enough to keep our inaction discreet. Once the winter comes, the soldiers will hunker down, and in a single night we could take out the ships and the bridges and cut off Belatona completely. After a month of waiting, the march of our soldiers can be completed in two days. Saphira and I can fly ahead and take care of any soldiers who still put up resistance. Our supplies come from the south, which will not be a burden for us. And after the protection of the winter melts, I can rebuild the bridge with magic and we can march on Dras-Leona unhindered."

Another silence encompassed the table, but this time, Eragon felt confident about it. _It won't be easy_, he said to Saphira. _But Jörmunder's plan is just ridiculous. And we can easily dispatch the things I have planned out, just you and I, for the most part_.

_Aye_, his blue companion agreed. _But it is risky in places. The movement of troops will be under the sole control of the skies and what bleeds from them. If a series of storms interferes, it can be catastrophic._

_The guard can protect them from weather to a certain extent, if necessary._

"It seems much safer," Nasuada concluded at the end of the pause. Jörmunder fumed, and Eragon did not expect him to concede. "It would have to be timed around the weather. There is one thing I think you would inevitable, though."

"Murtagh would come," Arya murmured, barely more than a whisper. Nasuada nodded.

Eragon shook his head. "Sooner or later, I will have to face him. With no one with Saphira. It makes no difference. Without an army behind him, it may even be easier to best him. We've never exactly faced each other on even fighting grounds, but this will be our last battlefield together."

"Are you that confident in your abilities to defeat him?" Jörmunder wondered aloud.

"I have no choice but to succeed."

A blanket of quiet descended upon the table. Eragon slowly retook his seat, but Jörmunder remained standing. Nasuada beckoned for him to sit, while remaining standing herself. She visibly took a moment of thought, and then looked down the table. After a breath, she said, "What say you, master dwarf?"

Kargan took his own moment to consider Eragon, staring into the Shadeslayer as if he were dissecting the attack plan from the rider's mind. At length, he said, "I find it a satisfactory course of action. With your permission, my Lady, the dwarves will back it."

"Nar Garzhvog?"

"We fight with ye, Lady Nightstalker," the giant Kull answered. He had remained unaccustomedly silent throughout the meeting and spoke with heavy words. "The plan of Firesword bodes well for the unbloodied."

Nasuada nodded with respect to the Urgal representative and turned finally to the final foreign delegate. "Arya? Do you think the elves would embrace Eragon's plan?"

Eragon was gravely fearful that she would tear his proposal apart by the tiniest threads of details, ripping on the skepticism and the loopholes that played as the major majority of what he had spoken. To his great surprise, she spoke perhaps the longest amount of praise she had ever indulged unto him. "There are no problems I foresee that we cannot identify and handle before they arise. If we are cautious and do not underestimate the cunning and power of Galbatorix, we will head into spring with an effortless taking of Dras-Leona."

As Eragon suppressed his pride, Nasuada nodded. "I believe we are in agreement, then. In the coming weeks, we will have to outline more extensive plans to prepare massive troop movements, including those currently en route to this location. In the meantime, provisions will be undertaken to further fortify and secure the city. We will have to endure at least a few weeks' worth of winter inside of the city; I would like us to be ready. Is there anything further from anyone?" Jörmunder looked ready to burst; Roran was ready to leap from his chair. "Very good. Council adjourned."

As the other members of the council mostly rushed out, the majority of which were the human commanders, Eragon stood and walked over to Saphira. He patted her snout, nodding to Kargan as the dwarf made his way from the tent. _You did well, little one, _she praised him.

_We won't know that until winter's end, I'm afraid, _Eragon responded. _And there are many problems we haven't addressed. It's still possible Galbatorix or Murtagh could pull something from their sleeve and turn the tides against us._

_Arya seemed content with the idea. _He watched the elf's departure in the reflection of his dragon's eye.

_I appreciate that. _Jörmunder exchanged a brief private conversation with Nasuada behind his back. The commander resolutely turned away once finished, stalking to leave while sternly avoiding Eragon's patronizing glare. _We used to get along just fine, him and I. Now look at us. Another thing torn apart by this war._

"Eragon." He turned to find Nasuada beckoning to him from the head of the table. "A quick word, please."

They were the only loiterers of the meeting, save for Nasuada's two guards flanking the entrance. Eragon knew could sense the minds of her Urgal complement waiting patiently beyond the exit, as well, although their surprising mental resistances prevented him access to their thoughts. He moved forward to where she was standing, eager to hear what further she had to speak to him about. Her hand was resting on top of the map, near the markings that signified Varden forces.

"I hope you realize, Eragon, that I put a lot of faith into your plan while I don't think I agreed with it."

"My Lady?"

"I don't think we can afford Galbatorix any extra time. By forgiving him Dras-Leona and the winter to plot, he has additional resources with which to challenge us when the snow melts and when spring turns into summer. I believe we are losing a sizable tactical advantage by sacrificing time for fewer casualties."

"Then you favor Jörmunder's idea?"

"I did," Nasuada agreed. "But it would seem that the council saw yours as the better course of action. I'm not disagreeing with you, Eragon. I just wanted you to know how I really thought."

"Yes, my Lady."

_Careful_, he said to Saphira as she touched minds with Nasuada. _I don't want stray words slipping out right now._

_You don't have faith in my judgment?_

_Your judgment is my judgment, I have the utmost trust in you, Saphira. After the display we've just seen with the council, I'm not sure how I feel about trusting _her. Nevertheless, Nasuada had felt the contact, and looked to Saphira. Before she could ask, Eragon relayed the message, fearing the mental connection. "Saphira was merely curious—you didn't seem to endorse either idea, although now you state aggression as your favorite tactic. Your council enemies weren't present today, yet you kept what you thought was best out of the common discussion. She was wondering your reasoning."

Nasuada's mouth twitched, but it wasn't a comfortable gesture. She took a breath, which was meant to be conspicuous but Eragon caught with ease, before saying, "That is a matter for another time."

Eragon waited a moment, for her to say something more. She did not, and he assumed that was to be the end of it. "As you wish, my Lady." As Saphira withdrew her head from the tent, he turned to depart himself.

"I will say, Eragon," Nasuada spoke from behind him, causing him to turn back, "that it would only do well for you if you made peace with our commander. For what it's worth, he's under the impression that you represent only the downfall of the Varden."


	4. 3: Nightlight

**Pretty much making this up as I go… might be boring. One thing I hope won't make you hate me: I've chosen for the moment to disregard the elven trait of "waking sleep", for I believe that, quite frankly, no offense meant, that prospect is stupid and makes for plotholes and poor writing. I apologize for those who enjoy the trait or such. Feel free to flame me for that.**

**Thanks to reviewers: Reader.**

**Disclaimer: Who said that? WHO SAID THAT?**

**3**

**Nightlight**

Arya had her own misgivings about Nasuada's actions during the meeting, although they were nothing that she would ever have voiced to the woman's face. Years amongst humans had shown her that the flawed species was not above placing his or her political activities ahead of crises in the order of priorities. She suspected that Nasuada was playing in the interests of herself, but she couldn't pin a reason to the cause. It was most unnerving, and she didn't know whether or not Eragon had placed what she had missed.

The confusion bothered her into the night, when she returned to her tent behind the city walls to report to Islanzadí of the day's meeting and decision. Her duties were not hindered, but up to the moment she scryed her mother's image in the full-length she possessed, it was a constant distraction. From the scrying moment onward, however, distaste took its place in occupation.

Her mother shimmered into existence before her. The rooms on both ends of the connection were shrouded in haze, barely visible. Islanzadí was not in her customary robes. Arya did not know whether or not she was in Gil'ead or another of the captured cities, but she appeared as if she were a moment's notice away from battle. Her wore light gray leather, flanked by a thin blade on her hip and a graceful bow slung over her back. The raven hair Arya had inherited was pulled back and bound from her face.

Before her mother had a chance to speak, Arya reacted with the customary greeting of their people. "Atra esterní ono thelduin."

Her mother replicated the gesture in the mirror. "Mor'ranr lifa unin hjarta ono."

Again before Islanzadí could slip in an extra word, Arya finished the formal end of the greeting. "Un du evarínya ono varda." This represented the subtle yet blatantly graphic hint of Arya's intent for the message. It was not a familial call, but one of duty. One she was only too happy to keep at the level she had chosen.

As Islanzadí slowly dropped her hand, she sighed. "Why must you be this way, Arya? The war has turned real, now. Any day the reality has become that one of us could be killed. I should not have our last words to one another be spent on mistakes decades into the past."

"I have but one matter of concern right now," Arya responded curtly. "And that is to inform you of what has transpired in the Varden camp, as you tasked me with as liaison. I must fulfill that task before considering personal matters."

"I am within my full jurisdiction to recall you and appoint another in your place. Then you could return to my side. With your people. Perhaps then we could form some sort of discussion about your personal matters."

An image of a blue dragon flashed across Arya's mind and she nearly physically flinched. "You are within your jurisdiction," she replied to the elven queen. "However, should you do so I will not come to fight with you. I shall remain here with the Varden, with or without your permission."

Islanzadí sighed again, and Arya felt no small amount of pleasure at frustrating her mother so. "I should regret it very much if I died tomorrow knowing my last act was to discontent you. I wish you would have stayed amongst your people all those years ago, so we would not be so far apart now, in mind and body."

"If I had stayed," Arya replied with perfect neutrality, "then the egg would never have found its rider and we would still be packed away hiding in Du Weldenvarden. Galbatorix would rule the land like an infestation, instead of the struggling dictator the humans are seeing him for truth."

"Perhaps." Islanzadí looked away for a moment. Arya caught a deep trace of sadness in the queen's eyes before she turned back. "What news have you?"

Without breaking her composure or saying one word more than necessary, Arya explained Eragon's plan detail-for-detail, sparing nothing nor adding uselessness. She told of Nasuada's aiding from the board and Jörmunder's opposition. Islanzadí heard without speaking for the length her monologue, listening with the patience of centuries. "The plan will involve waiting in Feinster for weeks in the beginning of winter," Arya concluded, "but it will result in considerably less wounded and killed than a direct siege."

"How do you feel about the Shur'tugal's idea?"

"Are my feelings not irrelevant? Nasuada has made her decision, backed by the war council. The matter is complete and I have no say to change it should I desire."

"Your insight is important to me," Islanzadí grimaced. "I simply wish to know how you interpreted the matter. It will help me to view it in my own way and manner."

Arya subdued her momentary stubbornness in light of answering the desired inquiry. "If explored, there may have been alternatives to the measure, but overall I believe that it is a viable plan that has a strong possibility of succeeding. The determining factor now is whether or not the Varden can mobilize at Eragon's word to coincide with the breaks in the armor and the weather. The fate of the objective may well fall in the hands of a judgment call, and that is the only danger I see involved."

"How fare he, the Shadeslayer?"

"Eragon is as well as can be expected of a human who represents the free world's final hope."

"In light of Oromis' passing, I mean."

The emotionless resolve Arya had placed around her conscious soul dissolved instantly, and agony struck a dull, aching blow to the heart. A night's silent sobbing had blunted the sharp point of the pain, but the Mourning Sage's death had affected her as much as the next devoted disciple. Somehow, she managed to hold back whatever sorrow she endured from spilling unto her physical expressions. Remembering the previous night's conversation on the twilit battlefield, she answered, "He is as well as can be expected. He grieves, as do I. It will not affect his ability to perform the duties he must."

Islanzadí nodded, and for the first time since her childhood Arya actually felt the need for her mother. The mutual look of pain that passed between them was almost enough to make her break the barrier that kept them eternally apart. But just not enough.

Islanzadí regained composure. "Glaedr and he could not be recovered. The evil that possessed the red rider desecrated the bodies. When victory is achieved, we will grieve for them in traditional custom."

Arya nodded, too broken to speak. A long moment passed before she found her voice. "Eragon… I fear for Eragon… I'm sure he has never felt so alone in his life, even though he has Saphira. In a sense, they are one and the same, however, and they're just beginning to realize that they must defeat the king's enslaved rider and the king himself alone."

After pausing, Islanzadí said, "He must have faith. Encourage him as you would yourself. Are you not his friend? You will help him as you will, but offer him your counsel on the journey. And keep your own courage as well."

Arya stared away, fighting back her emotions. "I will contact you when further change has developed."

"Be safe, my child," Islanzadí whispered. "Ono astá."

With the declaration of love, Islanzadí disappeared from the mirror, leaving Arya quite to herself in her spacious tent. For several long moments, she stood in front of the mirror surveying herself trembling. Gradually, she grew weary and crossed to the cot where she had slept the past few nights, sitting down to catch her breath and bearings. She calmed her thoughts and directed them away from Oromis and Glaedr; they had perished how they had wished, fighting for those that could not. It was not a sad fate, only misfortunate to the current time. There was proper time to grieve, but now was not it.

Neglecting even to undress, she turned on her side and strove to fall asleep, clearing her mind of the day's distractions curiosities. Try as she might, though, Nasuada and Eragon's tactic flooded her consciousness and continuously forced her to open her eyes in the darkness. The sounds of the surrounding camp permeated the thick cloth walls of her tent, but it was nothing she wasn't accustomed to and certainly nothing that usually kept her awake.

Rows over, for her ears, she could hear the deep, slumbering breaths of Saphira. Despite herself, she found her mind pushing outwards to brush against the dragoness'. She found contentedness there, not sorrow or grief. A spark of jealousy shot through Arya's body, unbecoming of her and mildly derisive. She shocked herself with the rare feeling, and shrank back from it with rare fear. But it was only fleeting; nothing to be afraid of. Pushing out further, Arya sought Eragon's consciousness. Her efforts went without reward, as in his tent she sensed neither his sleeping form nor his riling mind.

Despite her body's exhaustion she knew she could not sleep. She climbed from the cot and retrieved a cloak, donning it before escaping from her tent and losing herself from the night watch, away from the camp where her tent was situated, amongst that of the rider and elven guard.

She stole up a ridge inside the city limits that climbed above the terraces of most of the taller buildings, moving to the edge to observe the movements below from where she would go unnoticed in the shadows. She crossed her arms, overlooking their conquered city with a small amount of pride, aware of just how pivotal a role she had played in its capture. Not nearly as large as Eragon's, but significant, of course.

From her vantage point, she could see roughly the entire city, as well as views to the north, east, and south. Most of the landscape beyond the city limits was unremarkable. For those soldiers that were not yet encompassed into the city, their camps had been laid out on the strong side wall of Feinster, to the southeast facing Surda. Hundreds of campfires for thousands of soldiers burned in the night, casting a halo of light that stretched to the fantastic array of stars in the sky. Shadows danced amongst the tents as soldiers went about their business, guarding, amusing, eating, enjoying the time they had before they would be off for war again. In the far distance, past what the human eye could identify, Arya spotted more fires, soldiers not yet arrived from the haven of the south.

As she stood alone on the ridge, completely hidden from the world below, Arya found herself contemplating Eragon's plan. It was superficially attractive, plain truth. She could, however, see more than minor faults in it. There was assumption that, because of the relatively low number of attacks being made simultaneously, everything would succeed. While she could clearly see why such an assumption was not without reason to be true, the prospect of failure was something Eragon had not seemed to consider. It was also more physically-oriented than mental—the obvious issues were taken care of, but those who were slick of mind—like their enemies—could easily find ways to disrupt their plans if they were not careful. This surprised her especially, as she had considered Eragon wise enough to foresee such weaknesses and plan around them. In light of his oversight of the issue, however… perhaps she had misjudged him once again.

Abruptly, a presence bumped her mind from behind.

She wheeled around swiftly. A hand disappeared into her cloak, retrieving a dagger and wielding it back to defend herself against whoever tried to break into her consciousness. No attack came from the darkness, and after a split second she recognized the figure that stood a dozen paces away.

"Forgive me," Eragon said quietly, bowing his head in shame. "I thought you had noticed me before. I would not have approached had I known. Excuse me."

"No," Arya called as he turned to leave. "I was simply distracted. There is no need for apology." She replaced the dagger inside of her cloak as he turned to face her again. His hands were in his pockets, and he wore no warm clothing as she did. He was merely clothed in dark pants and a sleeved tunic. Nor did he seem troubled by the soft, chilling wind that ripped across the knoll they stood atop.

"What brings you here?" he asked.

"Sleep evaded me," she answered, half-turning back to the fields of soldiers and fires. "I came to clear my head. Unfortunately, it seems there is too much to clear. I did not sense you in your tent. I wondered where you were."

"Saphira was having vivid dreams I would rather not be involved with, and her subconscious mind wasn't being shy about it. I imagine some of the elves will have nightmares for centuries, come tonight."

Arya chuckled, and Eragon stepped forward to join her overlooking the ridge. She found his presence comforting, especially after the discussion she had just survived with her mother. They stood silently side-by-side, overlooking the encampments without words for several moments. At length, Eragon sighed, "Murtagh could be huddling just over the horizon in any direction, and we wouldn't know about it."

She felt the emotions in his words, and lightly opened up her mind to comprehend the feelings. "He would not dare to attack the Varden alone. It would be foolish. Galbatorix stands nothing to gain with such a ridiculous maneuver."

"No," Eragon agreed. "He's much too smart for that."

A silence passed between them, momentary and strange but somehow comfortable. Both of them crossed arms and tried to pick individuals from the dancing shadows of the fires. "What troubles you?" Eragon asked her at length, repeating the same question twice in a day.

"It is of no consequence." He fixed her with a knowing glare and she sighed at her miserable attempt to brush the question off. "I am not troubled. I am simply uncertain about something."

"Tell me what you're uncertain about, Dröttningu. Please."

"It is little to be so concerned of, Eragon," she said, a quiet instance of utilizing his chosen name. "I am merely presenting caution in the light of the council's adoption of your proposal. There are areas of uncertainty that I find… unnerving."

"Such as?"

"For instance, there was never established an exact number for the troop complement in Belatona. Likewise, much of our information regarding the supplies and the Dras-Leona armaments are based in speculation. Galbatorix will see through our plans the moment we initiate them. These are the things that cause my concern, and I am slightly surprised you didn't see them in your own plan. Or that the council did not challenge you."

Eragon took a long pause before responding. "You endorsed the idea. You didn't raise these objections yourself."

"It was a happy alternative to Jörmunder," she replied. "His proposal ended in chaos. Yours had some semblance of being successful."

"You didn't supply one yourself, either…" She thought about this for a moment, and had to admit that she hadn't volunteered an option because she hadn't foreseen an option she liked. Eragon's had been the happy median in her mind. Either she had shown this mental breakthrough on her expression or his mind had surreptitiously penetrated her own, for he grinned slightly and added, "I assume you've come to the conclusion that I have the best scenario for our endeavor?"

"That does nothing to sooth the nerves."

"Every plan has a hole in it," Eragon said. "A perfect plan doesn't exist except on the plotting table. When it enters the battlefield, everything falls apart. It's only about how advantageous it can get before the first pane falls from the shattered window."

Something in his voice made her glance over to his face. By the light of the distant fires, city candles and the stars above she caught something resting in his features that she couldn't identify. He was staring out across the cold plains, and he had a look of something akin to frustration pinned across his face. She was about to ask him what it was that caused him to look so when it abruptly switched to disgust as he rolled his eyes across the landscape. His eyes slid all the way across the spectrum until he realized she was watching him, and then he quickly glanced away again.

"What is it?" she asked him heavily.

"Nothing."

"Eragon…"

"It is of no consequence," he murmured, perfectly mirroring her words, glancing at her with the tiniest smirk beheld by the starlight.

"You're not telling me something," she argued. "You're hiding something from me. That is something you should not do, Eragon."

"I hide things from you everyday, Arya," he said, turning to her with eyes blazing of emotion. A mere moment after he unleashed his torrential voice he took a physical step back from her, shaking his head. "Forgive me. I shouldn't have said that. It was unfair."

"It is of no consequence." She smiled of amusement when he turned at her redundant words, but inside his outburst had affected her. He smiled back at her and they mutually turned back to the fires beyond the city limits, but there was a slight rift between them now that hadn't been present before. A pause stretched the length of her patience; being silent around Eragon had always troubled her. It made her feel as if she were opening a door for him to pull something unexpected over her. "I do wish you would tell me what troubles you inside of our discussion, however."

"Nothing," Eragon replied. "I'm just worried about it succeeding, too. Murtagh will pull something out of his sleeve, I'm sure. It's just going to have to be a matter of how we can all respond when he does. Excuse me, Arya Svit-kona. Saphira has awoken, and would like… me closer at the moment."

"Eragon," she called as he turned away. She wanted to tell him something about trust, but that would consign frustration. A trait of a human woman. This was an aspect that she detested, and halfway from transferring the words from her mind to her lips she reconsidered. "Good night."

He smiled wearily a final time. "Slytha mor'ranra, Svit-kona."

He disappeared into the night as quietly and inconspicuously as he'd come, leaving Arya alone on the ridge. His visit had only bothered her into believing that there was something very important he hadn't shared at the meeting, much less with her, and for some reason this troubled her deeply. She thought of the conversation he and Saphira must have been having at that moment, and for the briefest of split seconds she found herself experiencing unbecoming jealousy of the blue dragon.

Her thoughts utterly stopped, startled by the fiery emotion that had appeared from nothingness. She erased it and its traces from her mind instantly, only to be left wondering where it had come from and why it had occurred. She spent minutes overlooking the city dwelling on the subject, but found that she couldn't put a positive identification on the matter. Nevertheless, she had significant reason to be surprised, and it was a matter of minutes before she had calmed herself enough to return to other, less confusing thoughts.

She remained on the ridge into the early hours of the morning, until she finally returned to her tent to rest.

* * *

><p><strong>Slytha mor'ranra. - Peaceful sleep.<strong>


	5. 4: A Toad's Liver For the Heart

**Um… yeah. Okay, I had a lot of fun writing this one. I hope you like hearing Arya's thoughts… even if they're not all about Eragon. (tee hee, wink)**

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**4**

**A Toad's Liver For the Heart**

There were times when Arya felt like she just needed to duel. When words could not be solved by more words, a sword was the second-best tactic. Although violence was considered by many to be anything but the answer, she had found that utilizing weaponry made a good excuse for venting otherwise pent up and endless frustration.

The only problem amongst the Varden was choosing an opponent, for there was no one she felt comfortable combating.

The obvious choice was Eragon—that was why she refused to entertain this option. She didn't want to distract him from his personal loyalties and ties with something so trivial as a duel, especially under the circumstances and after last night. There was also a more selfish reason she didn't want to face him… she feared that, since their final battle in the fields of Farthen Dûr, he had undergone so much change and training and personal development that she would not be able to defeat him. For some reason, a reason she found foolish, she found this thought unbearable. And so, despite the silliness that accompanied her refusal, she would not fight Eragon.

There were always his elven escorts, but they too had their duties of protection laid down by Islanzadí. Were they watching anyone else Arya would have thought nothing of challenging one or two of them to a duel when they received a moment of freedom. They, too, were unavailable, however.

There was no human, save a rider that didn't exist, that had the speed or blade skill to match her, much less beat her, and no spellcaster that could best her. She made these thoughts without arrogance; they were simply the truth. The dwarven army had not yet marched to meet with them, but even if they had, she would never think to fight a dwarf for their incompetence with a sword. An urgal would be improper to face, and she refused to hunt a wild animal for sport. Her options were, unfortunately, nonexistent.

This left her meditating, instead of fighting, sitting on the floor of the nearest forest at high noon. With her logs crossed and her eyes closed, she spread her mind to all things non-sentient and tried to lose herself in their primitive living.

She had grown accustomed to thinking of Faolin without pain, accepting that he had passed and moving past it. There were times when it still struck her with sadness, but for the large majority she had dealt with the pain and passed it on. There was little to be gained from grief and mourning. She knew this as well as the next wise being, and she had chosen to move past the sorrow that encompassed her. Eragon, in his boyish giddiness, had forced the appreciation of life out of her again in Ellesmera, and she had refused to acknowledge the darkness of depression ever since.

Today, she imagined Glaedr and Oromis, and she found it was nothing like mourning Faolin. With Faolin, it had been a personal loss, but with the golden rider and dragon it was more. The grief accompanying the loss of life was accompanied by a fantastic drain of hope from her heart. She had become as comfortable as she could become with the fact that they had departed the world forever, but Arya found that letting go of the tingling at the edge of her soul the Shur'tugal always left inside of her had yet to release its hold on a mortal grip. Eragon had told her of Glaedr's Eldunari; he had told her everything of the dragon's heart of hearts. She knew Glaedr's essence, his soul, would never truly depart. Still, to her it felt as if the Varden had but one last hope.

Well… two.

But the blue hope was the only one she could see. And while her trust in it never wavered, she was beginning to doubt her judgment of their chances.

She stood in the middle of her focus, balancing on a short posture and drawing her thin blade from its sheath. The melee moves flowed from beneath her skin as an extension of her own body, mindless in their measures yet precise in their movements. In the air, the sharp metal traced fatal blows through imaginary enemies, fixing every mistake, analyzing and _correcting _every mistake she had ever made in a duel of blades.

As her body moved like fluid through the clearing she had encompassed, her mind never ceased her meditative thoughts. She pushed her thoughts farther into the distance, into the earth and the trees, searching to feel everything as her sword sliced the air. She had often wondered what Eragon's training with Oromis had been like. At times she had been jealous… the only training the golden rider had ever given her had been in riddles, meant to be unraveled only by her own doing. Eragon received lessons firsthand, a privilege she had never been afforded. It was Eragon's right, she knew, and she didn't hold it against him. Oromis was the only father she had known for so long, however. The thought of him forsaking her his teachings for the sake of another's learning hurt her dearly in times when she had nothing to do but think. Even though she understood exactly why Eragon had to be the one to learn them.

Eragon had almost _scared_ her last night. _Fear_. She had never feared Eragon, not when the transformation of his body took place and certainly not when he was human. She had feared his feelings for her at a few points in time, but there was something completely different about a person and their emotions. Eragon the person had nearly thrown her from comfort, eliciting caution and worry instead. She didn't know exactly why.

A strong part of her sensed a sense of anger inside of him that he hadn't known before. He seemed much older than he had been when they entered the chambers of Feinster to fight the Shade Varaug. She wished she had been more aware of her surroundings, so she could pinpoint the exact moment in time when he had changed from what he was then to what he was now. She wished briefly that he wasn't so important, so that she wouldn't think of him so much.

She trusted Eragon with her life, but there _was_ something he hadn't told her last night. For her life and intelligence, she couldn't place it. But it was beneath his surface, clouded in the mind that was closed to her, and which she would have refused herself access to had it been open. There was something he hadn't found fit to tell her. Unfortunately, this inevitably begged the question, what was it that he would hide it from her?

Which begged a question she especially wanted an answer to: did he still trust her as she knew he once did?

"You know, for all of your super sword skills, I find you elves swinging those big sticks around at nothing far, far too often."

Arya yelped, spinning around, whipping the weapon to defend herself against her surprise visitor. She expected an elf playing tricks, or far worse, a servant of the Empire with skills blessed by dark magic that outstripped her own. What she didn't expect was to find the witch Angela picking mushrooms and snagging weeds from the roots of a tree not ten paces away.

The shorter woman was wearing a raggy shirt and gown of matching unappealing brown, with sandals of an earthy-green color. Her characteristically curly hair was adorned with an assortment of leaves that didn't look as if they belonged where they were. On her arm she carried a tidily woven basket of hide, in which sat many specimens and green items she had procured, Arya assumed, from the forest floor.

Sighing, Angela added, "It's always when I'm looking for mushrooms, too. Not when it's herbs or furry animals. Always mushrooms…"

Arya dropped her sword to her side, erasing her stance of aggression, embarrassed at being discovered without detecting the woman in such an intimate moment. She cursed her mind, attempting to discover when the witch had snuck past her mental defenses and wards and entered her vicinity. To her dismay, she could not find it, nor could she even push into the woman's mind now for the mental defenses in place. What was happening to her detection skills? Twice in the space of a day she had been snuck up on, albeit by two significantly magic-qualified individuals.

"I was not aware of your presence," Arya said awkwardly.

Angela smiled pleasantly. "Oh, I know. You'd be surprised what I've caught some of you pointed-ears doing when they thought I wasn't there."

Arya knew well that Angela had often visited Ellesmera on acceptable terms with her people. Despite her best efforts, memories sprung to mind of some of her own incursions into the forests that she would _really_ rather not have been witnessed by any but the one she shared them with. She was appalled to find blood flowing into her cheeks, and Angela's smile bloomed at the image.

"Don't worry," the witch continued. "I take care to leave privacy as it is desired once I figure out I shouldn't be there."

Arya didn't feel comforted in the slightest. "What are you doing so far from the Varden's camp?"

"I would ask the same question to you," Angela replied, standing up straight as she set her basket down at her feet, "but I already know the answer. Trying to defeat the endless monsters of the air. I assume you don't want the humans seeing you make a fool of yourself. That would be most detrimental to your image."

"I was not making a fool of myself," Arya retorted, causing Angela to smile all the more. "I was focusing on my sword skills. There is nothing wrong with practicing maneuvers."

"Ah, well, you're never too old for fun, in any case. I enjoy finding one of your kind mindlessly indulging in the pleasures of freedom every now and again. It reminds me that there will probably be good in this world always, no matter what happens."

Arya didn't like many of her words, or the way she spoke them, but the tone was friendly and she knew they weren't meant with hostility. She chose not to reply on the matter, returning her sword to its scabbard instead. "You never answered my question. What brings you out here?"

"Looking for this, looking for that," Angela said, stooping beneath a tree and grabbing something Arya couldn't see. She waved a hand nonchalantly, looking as if she would lose her balance and topple all the while. "You never can be sure what you'll find in places so far from home. That's part of the fun in the whole thing, you see."

"The fun of what, exactly?"

"Learning," Angela answered, with a smile. Returning her catch to the basket, she picked it up and stood to her full height again. Walking farther along the treeline, she said, "Too many creatures in this world try to learn by speaking and talking and watching. Sometimes you need to learn simply by _looking_." Arya walked with her, quite unsure of why she was doing so. Angela continued to gather the odds and ends she stuck in her basket, piling them until it was almost full. She picked a particular plant and bit into it before placing the half-eaten fungus into the basket. "Sometimes by tasting, too."

Arya remained silent, watching with unintelligible confusion as the witch continued about her business.

"Have you forgotten how to speak, dear?" Angela prompted.

"No, I just do not know if I have something to say."

"Ah," Angela replied. "Young and caught in thoughts. Best not spend too much time doing that, or you might get stuck in them. I knew a man in Kuasta once who spent so long on the sole task of figuring out a riddle that he drowned because he was too busy thinking to get off of the ground when he slipped during a rainstorm."

Arya stomped out her words of dissent, choosing not to enter an argument she suspected Angela would only turn unto her. "Luckily, my thoughts don't dally in matters of solving."

Angela smiled sympathetically, shaking her head. "In thoughts of dragons and their riders, there are always matters of solving."

"My thoughts don't involve dragon riders," Arya lied.

Angela's smiled only widened, a glint of some mischievous emotion Arya suddenly detested shining in the deepest swirls of color in her eye. "Nice try," she murmured equally as unnerving, and said no more as Arya ceased her pace. The witch kept moving, leaving the elf behind as she hummed to herself. Arya stared at Angela's back for several long moments, mildly startled by how easily she had been read.

She started walking again, following the witch as the latter straightened and began walking through the trees again, talking all the while to things Arya couldn't see. Once the elf caught up to her, Angela glanced to her side and pleasantly said, "Oh, good. I enjoy company like this when Solembum is out. So often only Eragon is unafraid to speak with me these days, and Elva is as fleeting as can be."

Arya didn't reply for a moment, but Angela kept her eyes on the elf's face, stepping around trees before her without glancing at them. "Why are you staring at me?"

Angela shrugged, turning her eyes forwards again. "I'm not sure what I can say that will elicit a response from you, Arya. It's just so difficult sometimes with you elves. Some of you laugh too much, some of you cry to fill lakes. Some of you, like your mother, aren't as wise as the years have told them they are. It's all a mystery to decode who each and every one of you are."

Angela removed a knife from a scabbard and began to look towards the damp forest floor as they moved. Arya, her eyes on the short weapon, replied, "My people do not hide themselves from the world merely for our differences. Our presence would only confuse the majority of humans in Alagaësia without the riders around to act as a medium between our races, and the others would eternally fear us."

"Not to mention the king hates your species," Angela stated bluntly. Arya was taken aback by such rash words to describe a tyrant's actions. "I do wish you would roam as you once did, though. The days were glorious. I remember the day you were born in Illirea, the sun was shining and there were dozens of elves singing to it in the hills—"

"How do you know the day I was born?" Arya demanded.

It seemed as though all Angela could do was smile. "Oh, I was around. Your mother _was_ the queen, after all, so it was big news. Such a happy life you were supposed to live from that day. So happy…" Her voice rapidly transitioned into sadness, and Arya found herself feeling sympathy for the woman. A moment later she snapped from her unfamiliar feeling. Angela didn't seem so human anymore, even if there was no power to corroborate her claim of being in the old elven capitol at the time of Arya's birth. Abruptly, Angela seemed to shake off a shiver and smiled at Arya once more, "I'm sorry. What were we talking about?"

"Nothing of importance," Arya responded.

"Oh, good. I so dislike forgetting the subject when it's about something I really need to pay attention to. Tell me, you wouldn't happen to have seen a toad anywhere along the way, have you?"

"A toad?"

"A toad, yes," Angela repeated. "Sort of like a frog, but different. I'm sure you've seen one before, and thought to yourself, 'well, there's a frog', but it was actually a toad. Seen any froglike toads anywhere around here?"

Arya narrowed her eyes in misconception. "No."

"No matter." Swiftly, the knife in Angela's hand shot into the darkness beneath a tree and crunched through something. When the witch brought the device back into the light, Arya identified a toad or a frog or whatever it was impaled on the blade. Angela's teeth gleamed in the sunlight from above. "Here's one. The final ingredient."

"For what, exactly?" Arya asked, as she watched Angela deposit the dead animal into the basket, beside the mushrooms and other invasive plants.

"You'll see, dear," Angela said, pushing forward between the trees of the forest. In the near distance, Arya could hear the clinks of metal contacting metal and gruff shouts and voices of the Varden camp. "It shouldn't take too long to prepare. I've been looking forward to this concoction for as long as it's been since the last time I did it. I can't even remember when that was. Curious, what the mind does to you with age."

Arya didn't respond, and Angela began to whistle to occupy the silence. They walked this way, Arya still unsure why she had accompanied the witch from her clearing, as they emerged from the treeline that bordered the Varden's camp to the north of Feinster. The ocean spread out to their right, all the way to the horizon, glinting far off in the reflected light of the sun. Men bustled to and fro between the tents, many shirtless and sweating even in the cool temperature of the season. Their tasks were many and plenty, with little time to accomplish them.

Angela led Arya to a tent on the very outskirts of the formation. Almost no one spared them a glance as they appeared, growing accustomed to unexpected sights whilst under the wings of Saphira constantly. Angela lifted the flap to the tent and gestured for Arya, who still stood several paces away, to enter. "Come, come, we have much more to discuss. Come on now."

Arya allowed her legs to carry her further, entirely confused at what propelled them towards a rickety chair in the corner of the tent. It was a colossal mess. Books and papers spread everywhere. There was a bookshelf in one corner, which she had no idea how it had gotten there, covered in vials and a whole matter of ingredients borne for potions. A bed covered in more books rested in the corner with ruffled blankets and quilts. A strange array of weapons were heaped in an unruly mess in another corner. In the center of the tent, a cauldron empty save for water sat atop a fireplace of dark coals. In all her years, Arya wondered if she had ever seen a sight quite so strange.

"There we are," Angela said as she entered herself. She immediately set the basket down next to the cauldron and bent low to the coals. Arya watched her induce a flame by magic and ignite the coals into a fierce blaze in the space of seconds. Within a moment, a fire had sprouted strongly and began to warm the underside of the cauldron. Angela crossed to her bed and shoved a few books to the ground roughly, plopping herself down in their place. Looking none but the happier, she looked to Arya in the rickety chair and said, "Now then. Let's hear all about those dragon rider thoughts, hmmm?"

Arya stared at her blankly, horrified in the recesses of her mind. "There is nothing to discuss."

"Oh, terrible lies, all of it," Angela exclaimed delightfully. "Come on, tell me all about it. I won't tell anyone, you know. Whatever happens here is here."

Arya's eyes narrowed again. The witch was almost taunting her, trying to seduce her into releasing her thoughts out loud. There was nothing to tell, truly. Her only thoughts were innocent, of concern for her friend and nothing more, but hers to choose with whom and where she shared them. "I have no reason to discuss my thoughts with you. They are my own and I alone need be concerned with them."

"So untrue," Angela protested. "Besides, you know you want to share them. It really is so much better when you can say something out loud. It puts everything in perspective. It won't hurt to let out all your uncertainty, will it?"

Arya had half a mind to stand up and leave, but she stayed all the same. "There is nothing I am uncertain about. My thoughts are no concern of yours in any way. You have no reason to earn my trust and therefore I have no inclination to share my own personal matters with you."

"See? Even you admit there is a personal matter in the middle of all of that."

"No," Arya disagreed. "You are merely twisting my words."

The water, quick to boil, began to simmer, and Angela stood from the bed. She crossed to the basket and lifted it up. Beginning with a mushroom and then dropping in a handful of weeds, she began to add the items systematically into the cauldron. "My dear, you lie to yourself so. I'm only trying to help, and you just rebuke me. Why do you it? I haven't done a thing to offend you."

"You have insulted my species multiple times."

"I guarantee you that I am more fond of the elves than you are," Angela replied, never looking up from the cauldron. "And I am positive that I have spent enough time among them to understand why you have made your path dissimilar to theirs before."

"That gives you none the more access to my thoughts," Arya maintained. "It is not yours to know. You may know the elves, but that does not, by any indication, mean you know me."

"Quite true, quite true," the witch agreed. "But perhaps by knowing yourself you believe that you still know the elves. I believe that, should you examine that a little more closely, my dear, you'll find that's a grave error, too."

Arya spent a moment disentangling her words from each other. "I do not make that mistake."

"Don't you?" Angela retrieved the dead frog—toad—next, and swung a wooden cutting board to rest on the side of the cauldron. She smacked the toad to its surface and seized the knife, cutting viciously into the dead creature's abdomen. "I've seen the tension you have with other elves, tension that's been there for decades, and I don't understand all of it. Wounds heal over time. I would think you would know that, too."

Arya's mind flashed to Faolin. Then they rushed to Eragon's back, then to Eragon himself. She shook the thoughts away. "My wounds heal as do everyone else's."

Angela sighed and shook her head. She betrayed frustration in her body language. "You're so difficult to speak with, Arya. Is there anyone with whom you can have an honest conversation without sounding suspicious?"

"A few." Instantly, she regretted her answer.

Her regret multiplied exponentially as a smirk of knowing seeded itself and grew ever larger on Angela's face. "Oh, those lucky few," she said. Arya was distraught to find herself blushing for the second time. Angela didn't seem to notice, however, as she reached into the toad she had dismembered and pulled a bodily-fluid-drenched organ from inside the toad's belly. "Ah, the final ingredient. A toad's liver for the heart. This concoction might do you wonders, my dear."

"I think not," Arya retorted, as the witch took up a spoon and began to stir the potion. They both watched the contents of the liquid swirl for a few moments, all of the mushrooms and weeds and toad extremities and probably all manner of other things join together to create a rather revolting appearance.

Angela glanced between Arya and the cauldron as she stirred, the annoying smirk remaining locked in place. "Believe it or not, beautiful elf, I'm sure I've done you a wonder of good just by getting you to speak to me."

"This conversation hasn't been specifically memorable."

"The conversation? No, that's true. But at least I got you out of that clearing waving your sword at who-knows-what, when you could be thinking about so many better things." In the space of a second, Arya watched the annoying smirk plastered eternally to Angela's face turn into a cunning grin. "And I'd wager a good pot that you've been thinking about him the entire time we've been together."

As Arya got up to leave, she refused to think—that was the only way she could prevent herself from verifying the witch's words.


	6. 5: The Right Wing

**If you think this isn't serious enough about the war, PLEASE LET ME KNOW! PLEASE!**

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**Disclaimer: Get real or get fake.**

**5**

**The Right Wing**

_It seems you were correct_, Saphira remarked, as both she and her rider stared down from the highest pinnacles of Helgrind onto Dras-Leona. From their massive elevation, even from a league away, the spectacular eyesight they both possessed allowed them a spectacular view of the lake bay.

What they saw across the distance did wonders for Eragon's mood. There were no more than five able-bodied ships in the harbor, and this was assuming that the two currently in drydock would be shipshape by the time the Empire needed them. Eragon conjured an image of Saphira tearing the masts of the vessels from their bases in his mind, and the dragon rumbled deep in her throat with approval and enthusiasm. _I don't foresee much difficulty with any of them_, he told her, stroking her scales from where he sat on her back. _We could completely destroy some of them, especially if we caught them out at sea._

_That isn't to say no unforeseen troubles will arise_. She shifted beneath him, spreading her wings flat across the rock around them.

Eragon thought back three nights, to his encounter with Arya on the ridge in Feinster. He had seen her but once since, at another war council meeting, but had not exchanged more words than their common pleasantries. He missed her presence and her wisdom, as her friend. What he considered now, however, was her scrutiny of his plan. He had expected no less from her. _I'm counting into the equation some of those unforeseen difficulties._

_How can you count them when you do not know them, little one?_ Saphira murmured.

_You know the reason I'm not afraid to dare the Empire to retaliate on our strike, _he told her. _You also know I'm confident even without our presence the Varden would be able to repel any attack they face at this time of year. Do you believe differently?_

_No, _she agreed. _I feel snow on the air. It will be only a few more days now before the winds pick up and the cold begins to settle. By then, it will nigh on impossible for Galbatorix to move his armies of tens of thousands. However, the same can be said of the Varden, as well._

_Aye. _He looked down to the ships in the alcove of the bay, picking out the dots of the individual working men on the docks and the streets. The wind whipped his hair that grew longer every day, now beginning to brush the tips of his shoulders and growing ever more troublesome. _I think that we should put a great deal of trust in your perception of the weather, and launch our march within days of when you believe the first really bad storm will hit. That way, we will take Belatona before it hits yet the Empire won't have the time to hit us back before they're fenced in by the snow._

_You forget, little one, that the council has agreed to your plan to wait for a time before attacking. So that the soldiers of the Empire have sufficient enough time to "starve"._

He sighed. _Of course. Which is wise. But I cannot stand the waiting. It makes me feel like we're giving Galbatorix more time. More time to discover whatever he's looking for. Which we still don't know what it is._

_Patience_, she counseled him. _Arya possesses it. For watching her so much, you should have gleaned some sense of it._

_That's just what I needed, Saphira, thanks a lot._

Saphira was caught between offense and amusement by his sarcastic remark, facts unhidden to him by their link, but she recovered swiftly. _I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, little one. I just want you to become as great a person as you can be. I'm sure Arya does, too._

Eragon chuckled dryly into the air. Speaking aloud, he said, "The only thing Arya, Nasuada, and all of the others want for me to be is a hero to the people so that they follow me into storming the capital. If I didn't have you, I would be as worthless to them as the rest of the country."

A growl of sympathy echoed from deep inside of her belly. _I don't deny that. I do know that they hold a great deal of affection for you as you are, however. And it is not because they see you riding on my back that you have earned their respect. As well as their friendships._

Eragon considered her words, then chose to change the subject. It only made him think of Arya, and he was already too distracted to be drawn by further diverting subjects. _The elves plan to take Ceunon and chase the Empire from the upper edges of the Spine before the winter closes,_ he said, reiterating what had been covered at the last war meeting. _Once we take Dras-Leona down there in the spring, we will essentially crush Urû'baen and Galbatorix between the two forces._

_It will be no easy victory, _Saphira stated flatly.

Eragon caught himself short of mentioning how Glaedr and Oromis would enhance their chances and changed their line of speaking. _If the dwarves were to join us in full force, we would be able to pave the city with rubble. Galbatorix would be the only threat that stood in our way; his men would be nothing in the face of our numbers._

Saphira remained silent to his words. His face turned to the plains. Less than a hundred leagues away, so close after hiding for so long in the shadows, he knew rested the dark king in his stronghold. He would have taken off with her for the capitol then and there to defeat him, thirsty for victory after losing so much, but he wasn't completely naïve. In anything but a straight duel, Galbatorix could defeat him in seconds. He had never and never would admit it to himself, but he had absolutely no idea how he was going to attack when the opportunity and window finally arose. It was a subject he had no doubt would keep him up entire nights in the coming spring.

But he was already tired of waiting. He felt entirely useless in Feinster, walking only where Nasuada bade him to walk, talking only when she prompted him to speak. He did no good there—he felt restless, and he knew he would only be at peace in his mind when he was no longer at peace with his body. He would only be content when he had returned to the battlefield and begun his fight to reclaim the honor his masters lost over Gil'ead. He knew not what he would meet in the middle, but Eragon was sure where his efforts would culminate.

In the halls of the king, where his fate as a dragon rider would be fulfilled. One way or another.

At length, Saphira's voice reentered his mind, as if to mock his simultaneous. _Do not underestimate him, Eragon. We have many obstacles still in the way, as well, and it would do us no good to forget of them before our ultimate objective presents itself._

_I don't_, he responded sharply.

_I know. Sometimes it seems like it, though. The past few days, there have been times where I thought you would have sprinted to Urû'baen mindlessly if I hadn't been around to hold you in place. You felt my reaction when you were with Arya…_

_I just needed a few moments to myself, then,_ he replied, cutting her off.

_Yet you weren't by yourself. You were with her._

Any reply he had in the making was cut off by the deep shrill of a horn carried to them on the tips of the wind.

Saphira's head snapped to the east, from where the sound emanated. The action was so quick and violent that even his familiarity with her barely kept Eragon from falling off of the saddle. His own ears had attuned rapidly to the distant call, latching onto the fragments they caught between gusts. The horn was leagues away, but at their height they could catch it in its rough entirety. As the moments passed, as they waited in impatient silence, it grew in frequency and volume, until they could pick it out not as a series of sounds but a single, piercing wail.

_That's an Empire horn_, Saphira acknowledged.

_Aye_, Eragon replied. He strengthened his legs' hold on her back, and by that simple action she took the affirmative to leap off of the rock, scaling down its face until they were close enough to the ground to evade detection from the nearby city yet high enough to fly safely. Saphira veered sharply across the plains towards the horn, wasting not a second as they pursued the unknown source.

They had flown for less than a minute when Eragon's mind abruptly rammed against hundreds of consciousnesses. Saphira equally abruptly dropped into a steep descent, swooping so low to the ground that the tips of some hills grazed her front talons. Eragon, able to clearly read the thoughts of the majority of the consciousnesses, sensed their intervening distance decrease quickly.

Saphira set down behind a decently large hill, falling close to the ground. _They are close now,_ she said, and Eragon agreed. He placed a hand on her flank as he leapt silently off with great agility.

Leaving her stunting in the lowest depression of the hills, he skirted between them until he found one above which he could see the origin of the consciousnesses. Although he already knew their identities, knew every thought but for those few who were wise and educated enough to shield their minds from outside influences, the dread and apprehension of what they represented didn't seem real to him until he had whispered spells of concealment and slid over the hill to observe the passing mass.

Soldiers of the Empire, clad in red armor and marching in perfect step with each other, slid across a dip in the fields embroidered by a road below. He guessed by the presences he could felt that they numbered two, maybe three thousand at the most. They were all tall and strong, unblemished by previous combat. They carried shields bearing Galbatorix's symbol, fearsome and beholden. Officers on horses headed the regiment, marching with regality and long swords. The complement stretched perhaps a half-mile in length, but it was shocking to behold. Added to the ten thousand still stretched between Belatona and Dras-Leona, it was an unforeseen difficulty. The only consolation to Eragon was that he couldn't see nor sense a red dragon in the sky.

Then again, the consolation could be interpreted as a curse…

_This was not predicted, _Saphira interrupted his individual thoughts.

_Galbatorix must suspect quick action_, Eragon replied. _He would never dispatch so many raw troops from the capitol and away from defending from the north if he were not fearful of further defeat from here… or unless something shifted his way in the north._

_Arya spoke of no weaknesses in the elven forces or conquests. I find it hard to believe Islanzadí would overlook any fault in their assault and battery._

_This changes things, _Eragon continued, looking across the plains, relaying everything his eyes and ears picked up to Saphira safely tucked between hills in the short distance. _These reinforcements must not be allowed to reach Belatona before the winter begins. They would throw our plan to hellfire, and the only alternative would be a straight onslaught of the likes of Jörmunder's fantasy._

_You are right, _Saphira agreed.

Eragon spent precious moments gathering anything he could from staring at the soldiers; their numbers, their abilities, their weapons, their mental capabilities. Except for a few meager spellcasters and a few strong-minded, they were nothing special. He gazed them over, and even as he did so his mind raced with possibilities… He wore no armor, only leather, but he could move too quick for them. Almost without his permission, his hand slid down his hip and latched around Brisingr's handle.

_No, Eragon._

_We could do it_, he implored her. _The plan must not fail._

_Sheer strength will overpower you. And I. There are too many. Our presence here must not be discovered, or else Galbatorix's fear _will _escalate and he will send more than the Varden can handle. They will be trapped in Feinster until the warm year returns and will be dealt a severe disadvantage. _

_I could take our hundreds with magic. It would be easy._

_With what, Eragon? There is nothing to take energy from! You will kill yourself!_

_I'll take it from their own bodies._

_It doesn't work that way, _Saphira cautioned strongly. As much as he knew this was true, he wanted to ignore the words. He had no choice in the matter—to shirk them would be fatal. _Stop, Eragon. Do not make a foolish mistake because of your emotions. You have to control them. We must return to the Varden and warn them of this evolution to our dilemma._ Despite the truth behind her words, he glanced, frustrated, back at the columns of moving soldiers. _Do what Arya would do._

Her words sent him sprinting down the hilltop to return to her, fearful of what he might do if he remained. She was perfectly right and he knew it, and he weaved between the hills to her without hesitation. It would take them the rest of the day to return to the Varden in Feinster, flying at Saphira's peak speed. The more distance he put between the soldiers and her, the more resolute he felt about what she said.

_I missed you_, he said sentimentally as he hopped back onto her back, the truth behind his words reflecting more than just their physical separation. His mental lapse contributed to the void that had temporarily blocked her off from him, uncomfortably.

Her reply caught him completely off guard, sentiment and affection missing from her seriousness as she turned a large eye onto him. _Not yet, little one. Soon, I fear you might._

* * *

><p>A league away, the red rider and his dragon watched their blue counterparts soar away quickly. Murtagh scratched Thorn's flank, casting his mind out just enough so it wouldn't brush the range of his brother's, taunting the younger of them two without letting Eragon know what he was up to. His smiled twisted as he watched the blue dot sink into a speck as it gained distance. Within the minute, they would be beyond even Thorn's eye to track.<p>

Thorn grumbled inside of their mind connection. _It would seem Eldjeirda Galbatorix was correct yet again. I thought he would attack once he got so close, but it would seem he has greater ambitions than we. The Bjartskular and he must have other strikes in mind._

_Just means he grows smarter with every day, _Murtagh replied. He sought the sounds of the Empire soldiers bound for Dras-Leona in the distance, upwind as they were from their position. They grew bleaker gradually, and Murtagh knew he no longer needed to worry of ambush. Thorn spoke the truth, Galbatorix _had _been right. Eragon hadn't dared attacked, even when he could have dealt considerable damage to the reinforcement count. _And that means the king was right about the rest, too._

_What do you think they are planning?_ Thorn wondered. _Do they plan to storm the capitol as quickly as they can, before the winter can slow them? Try to end the fighting before we spend the cold season regrouping?_

_No, I doubt that. They have the momentum of their Feinster victory behind them. They wouldn't waste it by making a mad dash that would promptly end in their defeat. Nasuada is much smarter than that. No, they have something more cunning in their minds. Something that won't bode well for Galbatorix if it reveals itself._

Murtagh stared back across the plains, towards an array of clouds that darkened with one of the final rainstorms of the season. It was highly probable that the storm was currently hovering over Urû'baen, shrouding the city in the darkness that Murtagh and Thorn felt inside of its confines even on the sunniest days, as they stood by the king's side and carried out his bidding by the cruel enforcement of their unwillingly sworn oaths. Thorn had known no other life, but saw with despair what freedom was from the memories of his rider. They both understood the truth—in the face of their master, they were little more than the slaves that his diverse minions were. The Shades. The Ra'zac. The red dragon and rider were no different than the likes of those scum. It sickened Murtagh to no end when he thought of it.

_Regardless of their plan, Eragon won't forget who it was that dueled the other rider_, he told Thorn as he climbed on the dragon's back, fitting into the custom made saddle with familiarity. _He had faith before, but… I'm sure the pain he undergoes compares, in some cruel and unfair way, to ours. He thirsts for blood, like his dragon._

_What do you mean by your words?_ Thorn asked. Scars of the body would live with him for the rest of his life due to Galbatorix's use of magic to speed his growth. Even worse was the damage to his mind, which stunted his mental development as his body matured without his brain. Murtagh patted Thorn with sympathy at the misunderstanding as the red dragon launched them both into the sky.

_If only to break us from our servitude to the dark king_, Murtagh explained, _Eragon and Saphira will not back away from us again. They know now, as do we, that we can be controlled all the way from the confines of the dark halls, and that is something they, especially Eragon himself, cannot afford to risk._

Lightning rippled in the distance.

_If only to save us from ourselves,_ Murtagh finished grimly, _Eragon will either kill us or die trying._

They spoke no more as they flew to the black city in the north.

* * *

><p><strong>Eldjeirda - eggbreaker<strong>


	7. 6: Adapting

**You overwhelmed me this time. I'm so immensely gratified. I struggled with this chapter for a while… I wasn't sure if I should keep it all as Eragon or not. If you feel like I'm spending too much time in Arya's point of view, please tell me.**

**Thanks to reviewers: roj, Reader, Caironater, Castaway5, BlakDawn, Restrained.Freedom and ShadedWriterOfTheDarkness.**

**Disclaimer: Is it hot in here or is it just not me?**

**6**

**Adapting**

Arya's eyes slid open as she felt the blue rider touch her consciousness even from beyond the sight of her naked eye.

Twilight, ever earlier in its appearance, was just beginning to settle over the encampment and the city, and from where she stood on their ridge she had a remarkable view of the land. Concealed from the Varden below by resting cross-legged on the ground, she found it was a much better place for meditating than the forest. Much less ability to be disturbed. Her duties were unneeded as far as Nasuada was concerned until Eragon returned with his reconnaissance report, and as she had little else she desired to accomplish, Arya had set herself atop the ridge to rest in the middle of her thoughts, casting her mind out freely so she would know exactly when Saphira returned with her rider from abroad.

Eragon recoiled instinctively at her touch, but relaxed immediately once he realized it was only her. _Svit-kona, I hadn't realized you would be contacting me so soon as I returned. Was there something you needed?_

_I simply wanted to be appraised of your return before all others_, she replied, offering no explanation.

_I have returned,_ he uttered sternly, attempting to invoke a humorous reaction from her. She allowed a mildly pleasant feeling to emanate from her consciousness, his only reward for the effort. _Things have changed. Our plan of action will have to be amended in light of recent occurrences._

_What do you mean? _she asked, startled.

With her permission, he sent her an image in the mind. She saw thousands of troops marching towards Dras-Leona, draped in red armor and bearing the banners of the Empire. _Their arrival was completely unseen, _Saphira told Arya. _The Varden cannot afford to stay with the current plan when Belatona may receive a large complement of fresh troops._

As they appeared and continued to grow larger in the sky's waning light, she stared out behind them. Towards the enemy. _The dark one must expect something._

_We surmised as much, _Eragon told her. _We all need to speak with Nasuada immediately._

A series of calls echoed below as others observed Saphira's approach. Arya listened to their minds as hundreds rapidly panicked before realizing it was the friendly blue and now the terrorizing red in the air. They began to cheer in support as she glided to her final approach and began to pull up atop the ridge where Arya stood. _Exactly what are you going to say to her? This bodes anything but well for the Varden._

_Why would I tell her anything but the truth?_ he replied. Saphira landed lightly for her mass, folding her wings as her talons dug into the earth of the hill. He disembarked swiftly, striding to her side with little effort. "Besides, I can't exactly beat around," he said audibly. "The plan is unfeasible now and I'm the first one who should notice that."

He turned to walk past her with a courteous nod, but she threw out a hand and caught him by the arm, pulling him back and rooting him in place. She was substantially glad their position was blocked from view from the majority of the Varden, save for those outside the city's walls who were too far away to comprehend their sights. "I meant, what do you plan to suggest when she asks you?"

Eragon paused. As she released her grip on his arm, he said, "What would suggest, were _you_ in my place?"

"I do not know," Arya said. "I would probably defer to her more senior militia leaders, as she would trust their word better than mine."

"And if she would listen to you?"

"I would tell her that attacking a reinforced Belatona is a mistake, and risking defeat in the matter at all is far too great a gamble to take with the Varden's depleted army. For what it is worth, though, that is irrelevant, because she will take anything you say into consideration, regardless of what it is. I would not support aggression, however."

Eragon nodded. He motioned to move—Arya stopped him again. "Svit-kona, if you detain me any longer I doubt Nasuada will see me before I pass of old age."

"You are a rider," she reminded him, casting away the prospect of dying. "Eragon, Jörmunder would have you become like him—always ready for battle and pushing for blood until his enemies have paid the price for what he's lost. That is the way of the riders. That is not your way."

Deep in Eragon's eyes, she registered an emotion of dread. It wasn't until he recoiled violently from her touch that she finally put a name to what she saw: offense. "What do _you_ know of what it is to be a rider? What do you know of a dragon's ways?"

Arya realized her mistake instantly. She would not have withdrawn her words even if it were possible—that was not _her_ way—but it was clear the effect they had had on Eragon. He withdrew several steps as she tried to compose a response. "I did not mean offense."

"Don't think I don't understand exactly what I'm doing. The complications may be out of my sight but I'm aware of exactly what I propose, Svit-kona. And do not think that you understand what it is to be dragon and rider and what that means for your head just because you've read all about the mystical connection. You have _no idea_ what it is to be us."

He stalked off, making sure his word was the final one. Arya was left staring at Saphira, startled and wondering what had set Eragon into such a mood. The dragoness' own eyes conveyed sympathy for her, although she couldn't detect in Saphira shared her rider's conviction, though perhaps on a scaled-down stage.

_What was that, Saphira?_ Arya asked her.

_I am unaware, Emerald Eyes. He was tried mentally on this journey. Perhaps he is simply frustrated._

_I never expected him to react that way. My words were wrong, and he was right to argue with them, but he overreacted before I could apologize. Now I fear I can't even approach him to find out what set him off like that._

_You can always try. He's blocking me from his mind._

Arya nodded to the giant dragon, whose face looked as worried as it could get, and set off after Eragon. He was at a brisk walking pace, but she caught up to him only about halfway down the ridge, his footsteps heavy and angry against her fleeting, graceful ones. She came to his side and spoke in the Ancient Language to make him listen. "I apologize, Dragon Rider, I meant no offense. My words were poor and my exclamation of them even more so. I did not mean to insult either you or your dragon. I simply do not want to see become as heartless as some of those who lead our allied soldiers into battle."

Eragon stopped walking and glanced at her. They held each others' stone gazes for a long moment before he sighed. "I'm sorry. My frustration has gotten the better of me. It will not happen again."

"What is so frustrating it has affected your judgment?" she asked him as gently as she could manage without losing the weight behind the question.

"I simply felt my plan would have worked to perfection. It is merely annoying to have it so easily disrupted. I should have foreseen these difficulties, as Nasuada warned me. As _you_ warned me. But I didn't." His words made their sense, but Arya felt he was skirting corners, finding ways around the truth that couldn't be covered by blatant lies in the Ancient Language. Beyond his words, though, a look had returned to his face, his eyes, his body language. He seemed uneasy, all of a sudden. It was the same as he had acted when they had met on the ridge.

"Tell me, Eragon, what troubles you. What are you hiding?"

He stared towards her with terrorized eyes. "The plan should've worked."

"What is so important that it cannot be managed around our revised tactics? What happened before that cannot happen this time?"

He didn't answer.

"Eragon."

"We won't have them trapped. When they're trapped, they will feel the darkness calling to them. When they're trapped, Galbatorix will understand how much there is at stake in one city. He will have no choice but to fight for it, no matter the risks against it…"

"You said it yourself, Eragon, he couldn't get an army across the river or lake to fight!" she argued. "The only thing he could do, which he would be forced to do, is to send—" She lost her voice abruptly. Her mind clicked. Eragon turned away from her and resumed his path down the ridge.

Without hesitation, she shot after him. "You _want_ him to send Murtagh. That was your plan all along. To lure Murtagh out from the capitol. Why? Why do you desire to face him again, Eragon?"

Eragon rounded on her, towering above and making it seem as he were much taller than he was. Undeterred, she stood her ground as he retorted, "In _cold blood_, they were used as a weapon to kill my masters. _Our_ masters." He gestured to Saphira, who had followed Arya down to the arguing pair. "They utilized a moment where Oromis was dishonorably vulnerable and used it to strike them down. When I meet them, I will force them to come on _my terms_, and I will _kill them both_! They will not _live_ to see the day where they can sleep without seeing my face in their nightmares! They will not live to see another day when the four of us clash once again."

Before she could even respond, he spun away from her and trudged down the remainder of the ridge into the descending light of the day, leaving her alone. Stunned, she turned back to Saphira, only to find that the blue dragon had also somehow managed to disappear. She had nobody to try and help her understand, even though she already knew and comprehended quite clearly what Eragon had said.

For the first time since she had faced Varaug, Arya felt truly afraid. And even then she had felt Eragon at her side.

* * *

><p>"This is unfortunate," Nasuada said when Eragon had finished explaining all they had witnessed. Arya had entered and stood to his lady's right side. Garzhvog humbly towered near the entrance to the tent, Nasuada's guards the only other occupants of the dimly lit tent. It had, true to suspect, taken them into the night to return.<p>

For such a tumultuous report, Eragon was slightly surprised to hear her speak so plainly of it. Arya stood resolutely with her customary straight face, but he could almost hear the gears of her sharply-tuned mind grinding away behind her pale face. He didn't plan on it, but he knew that if he wanted to know what she were thinking he would only discover in private. Knowing her, they would not come out in common council. He had no intention of seeking her out after the meeting, in any case.

Nasuada rubbed her temples with her free hands, trying to wipe away months of sleeplessness. She stood and crossed in front of her chair, pacing back and forth. Arya remained still, staring straight into Eragon's face. He staunchly ignored her, even though it hurt the deepest part of his forgotten heart to do so. They both observed Nasuada walk to and fro a few iterations before the ebony-skinned woman spoke up, referring to them both. "This complicates things a fair amount. Jörmunder will not be pleased in the slightest. Your idea does not seem sufficient any longer, Eragon."

"That would seem to be correct, my Lady," Eragon acknowledged, watching her dark figure march left and right relentlessly.

"We must convene the council again, quickly." Nasuada returned to her chair again. "This is most unfortunate. How many soldiers did you say there were, again?"

"Two or three thousand, at the most. That's still a substantial number to hold in reinforcement. Judging from the complements we already saw at Dras-Leona, I'd say a fair number of those troops will be sent along straight into Belatona, to strengthen the reserves we've already sent into retreat and depleted from battle."

"Our numbers imminently ready for combat don't compare in that situation," Arya quietly spoke to Nasuada, who nodded. Eragon didn't acknowledge the statement. He felt Saphira's concern in his mind, and he was forced to ignore that, too. His dragon had never seen him act so towards Arya before—for that matter, neither had he.

"Nightstalker," Garzhvog rumbled, causing all eyes to turn on the huge Kull. "I will gladly lead a bläkgñish charge of my rams. At the worst, we will batter down the walls of the city and crush a number of skulls before we are overpowered."

"Unacceptable," Nasuada responded, never hesitating. "Even if you covered the distance, the city is a fortress when locked down. I have no doubt of your combat ability, but I am not willing to accept those losses. We must find another alternative." In the deeper confines of his mind, Eragon wondered whether her proclamation was truly based in numbers, or rather in politics. "I'm open to suggestions to propose to the council."

No one spoke. It was a dismal silence. Eragon knew what he wanted to say, but it would not be received well. Especially by Arya. And he was above placing his personal aspirations above the welfare and success of the Varden, no matter his score to settle. Too many lives depended on it. Just when Nasuada appeared ready to call the situation hopeless, Arya breathed deeply and said, "It may be prudent to postpone any aggression until the winter season has ended. A wise and conservative choice would keep us in Feinster for the winter."

Nasuada considered it, glancing at Eragon. An unspoken question hung towards the blue rider, who mulled over his words for several moments before speaking. "That would be the progressive course of action if the desired gain was to minimize casualties and maximize the ground achieved before the onset of the winter." Satisfied, Nasuada turned away from him nodding, and Arya looked unto him with what only he could interpret as relief and approval. Knowing the reaction he would get, he took a deep breath. "However…"

Nasuada slowly turned back to him. He watched as Arya closed her eyes and bowed her head low. Saphira reluctantly agreed with him, choosing their course of action in his mind. "However," he continued, "we have a small window. The reinforcement count of the Empire will settle in Dras-Leona for the night. Tomorrow, they will assess their situation and dispatch some of their number to Belatona, and the march will then begin immediately that next day."

Arya's eyes begged him to stop, and her words rang out in his mind, her words of warning against turning into a strategist of Jörmunder's likes. He forced himself past the pain to ignore them. "If I flew ahead tomorrow morning and broke the bridges over the river, and our armies set to march at daybreak, they could make camp on the farthest of outskirts of Belatona by nightfall. At dawn the next day, we could attack Belatona and take it while the Empire's reinforcements are caught on the other side of the Jiet, unable to cross and assist the lost city. We will have Belatona and we can hunker down for the winter, none the different for the trouble."

The room was silent. With Nasuada's back turned and Garzhvog's attention elsewhere, Arya shook her head at him, the most fractional movements he had ever seen. He tried to enter her mind, to apologize but justify his actions, despite their earlier differences. A wall of stone met his advance painfully, and he withdrew swiftly, regretfully. She redirected her gaze, and he knew he wouldn't be able to meet her eye again.

As this entire affair transpired, Nasuada slowly smiled. "I believe you've not only become a wise diplomat, Eragon, but a brilliant strategist, as well. I didn't think you would suggest something like that."

"It will be no easy operation," Eragon continued. Arya was staring the other direction. "We can only take four thousand, at the most, of the five thousand troops we have here in Feinster, my Lady, if we wish to safely hold this city as well as the next one. They cannot stop to rest on the journey or else they will lose too much time to attack with the element of surprise. The human battalions, and the Urgal regiments, must make absolutely zero mistakes if it were to work. I would only advise this if it has your direct confidence and permission, my Lady."

"Please fetch Jarsha," Nasuada called to one of her guards at the door. The man bowed and ducked outside of the tent. "If you are confident in your own abilities, I would not doubt what you say. You have the most difficult job. And, if need be, a last-second retreat would be a quite possible option."

A moment later, the little Varden messenger boy rushed into the tent. "Yes, Lady Nasuada?" he panted, anticipating a delivery of great import that only he had the skill to deliver.

Nasuada smiled to him as she spoke. "I need you to run immediately and wake Jörmunder. Tell him I require his presence immediately. Roran, too. Wake all of the human commanders, and tell them to meet me here immediately. We are going to have a change of plans. Tell that to them. Go, now, please."

He bowed once more and ran from the tent even faster than he had come.

Nasuada stood and beamed at Eragon. Her good cheer was slightly unexpected, but Eragon took it in stride. Saphira offered him comfort as Arya continued to avoid him. "I will tell the commanders to ready the bulk of our armies for immediate march to Belatona, and arrange for the plan to be departure beginning at dawn the day after tomorrow. Is this satisfactory to your suggestion?" Eragon nodded. "Good. Nar Garzhvog, will your rams join us in our Belatona assault?"

"Of course, Nightstalker," Garzhvog replied. "I will begin preparations immediately. We will be ready as soon as your horn sounds." The giant Kull bowed lower than Jarsha, and stooped to make his way from the tent. As he moved, Arya stepped down from he position and occupied the massive space Garzhvog had just vacated.

"With your leave, my Lady," she said, using the honorific title for Nasuada, a rare feat. Eragon watched her stalk past him and leave the tent. He felt nothing but cold from her as their bodies passed within a foot of each other, and it frightened him to no conceivable end. He felt Saphira shiver purely from their contact.

"Would you like me to remain, my Lady?" he asked Nasuada frantically.

Her smile gradually disappeared. "I don't require it, no. I can't imagine you being very eager. If you would like to stay and brief the commanders yourself, you are more than welcome to. It is your idea."

"I am confidant in you to perform that duty better than I, my Lady," Eragon replied. His mind was following Arya's retreating form two rows of tents away.

"Then you may go," Nasuada said. Eragon bowed and turned to leave before her words were fully finished. Such a clear sign of disrespect was unnatural and courageously foolish, but he knew she would pass it as nothing. Despite this, he could feel her curious and concerned expression following him all the way from the tent as he rushed out.

He sprinted through the shadows, undetectable by the passing, unimportant humans as he followed her. He caught up to her in a matter of seconds, and rushed to her side. She paid him no mind until he was adjacent, when she finally stopped to face him as he spoke directly to her.

"Why did you leave so quickly, Arya?" he said. "Nasuada and I would have appreciated having you there to consult the commanders."

"It would appear she has no need for the either of us, Shadeslayer," she replied. Evenly, neutrally. In his eyes, cruelly.

He swallowed. "I'm sorry. I know you didn't agree with what I said but—"

"If I had concerns with your plan, Eragon, I would have voiced them there." Her voice betrayed nothing. "I will follow through with whatever orders Nasuada gives me accordingly. We can both only hope for a swift victory in this campaign. Forgive me; it is late. It is time I retired. Good night, Shadeslayer."

He watched her disappear once more, this time deliberately slipping into the shadows to evade him. He was left standing alone, reaching back to Saphira. _That's not good._

_Did you expect her to be pleased, little one?_

_No_, he sighed. _But I didn't expect her to react with such venom. I hope she's not this way if the human commanders agree with the plan and we march on Belatona._

_Perhaps it would be better that way. She would have something honorable to take her anger out upon._

Eragon sensed irony only a dragon would appreciate on her words.


	8. 7: Waking Up

**I appreciate all the support. Sorry to disappoint with a lack of action, but I'm trying desperately to not rush into this. I added this entire chapter for development of the mental side of the story. I promise, when the battle scene comes in about three chapters, give or take one or two, it won't disappoint.**

**Thanks to reviewers: Castaway5, Reader, ShadedWriterOfTheDarkness, Nocturnal, BlakDawn, RestrainedFreedom and greensun30.**

**Disclaimer: My plotlines are much more original, I think? No?**

**7**

**Waking Up**

As he sat at the shabby table that served as his temporary desk, Roran watched his wife brush her hair.

This would have been no less enticing had she not been wearing a thin, gray nightgown, but even as she was or if she wasn't the sight never failed to mystify him. It wasn't even the sensual nature of the scene that entranced him like a young boy; Roran had just never felt so at peace as when he watched the woman he loved brush her own hair with a meticulous, almost obsessive nature. The letter his quill hovered over was long forgotten in the matters he otherwise considered far more important.

Katrina caught his eye in the mirror and grinned at him mischievously. "That letter will never get written if you don't start focusing on it."

"Who cares?" Roran replied without a second thought, but downturned his head so he could consider his words on the paper once more. It was actually a matter of great import, and he did foolishly to forget of it. Even as these thoughts crossed his mind, he said, "There's always time for writing later."

He watched as Katrina balanced her weight, the growing swell of her belly, their child, as she set her brush down and sauntered over to stand at his side. She rested her hands on his shoulders and kneaded into his sore, tense muscles. "But there is no time like the present, my love."

He frowned at her playfully, at her insinuation that she wanted nothing to do with his distracted soul. "You push me away now, but you will feel my absence the next time I have forty-eight hour guard duty."

"Write," she commanded, although his words had had their desired sobering effect and he grinned at her in victory. He turned back to the letter as her hands left his body, trailing once over his furry face before she strode back to the mirror. His attention returned to the letter, which was just as short as it had been a half an hour ago.

Roran had opposed Katrina accompanying him, or, to put it more properly, following him, to Feinster, but she had insisted even through his desperate throes of protecting their unborn child. Few others from Carvahall, mainly only the fighting men, had made the journey with the army, and the women and children had all remained safe behind the borders of Surda. The letter he wrote now was directed to Horst, who held great respect among those of Carvahall, even those who weren't exactly partial to Roran. Nasuada had asked nothing of him, but Roran felt the need for men on the front, and in his letter he was asking Horst to rally as many strong men of his former home and travel to Feinster for the grunt work the combat-weary soldiers no longer had the energy to do. Horst would come, he knew, even if it meant leaving his wife. He was quite unconvinced how many others would honor his call for assistance.

And, judging by his inability to actually compose the letter, it didn't seem there would be too many.

"Not so easy?" his wife called to him.

"No," he agreed. "I don't know what I can say where I can get people that don't actually like me to come anyway, just because the Varden needs their help. They won't overlook that I'm the one calling for them and they hate me."

She halted her movements for a moment to catch his eye in the glass's reflection. "If they are as good of people as the Varden need then they will come whether they hate you or not. You can't worry about the rest."

"Well, I'm worrying." Roran set his quill down and rubbed his eyes. He found these days that he didn't like to sit in any one spot for too long. It left him restless and suspicious, and months wondering if Katrina was all right, or even alive, had made him restless as a character trait. He didn't enjoy being restless. "What would you say if you needed to convince people?"

"That my husband needed them," she replied, grinning.

He shook his head at her. "You're just no help at all. Go brush your hair."

The rap of a knuckle on their tent post drowned out any response she may have attempted to make. Roran glanced at Katrina, who was less than presentable, and then stood to approach the entrance to their tent. The wind rustled through his unruly dark hair as he stepped outside to greet their visitor.

The messenger boy Jarsha stood waiting autonomously by the post, and popped to attention the second Roran came into view. "Captain Stronghammer! Lady Nasuada requests your presence immediately in the council tent."

Roran glanced back towards the inside comfort of his tent and then sighed. "Can it not wait until morning?"

"She says to come now, sir," Jarsha replied.

Roran couldn't disobey a direct request, much as he didn't want to go; there was just no room for that in the precision of their battle plans and preparations. He nodded, wondering how much more sleep and quality time he would lose with his wife before they could settle. _You're at war_, he chastised himself. _What do you expect? _"Very well," he told Jarsha aloud. "I'll be along in a few moments, after I finish something."

Jarsha nodded excitedly and sped away between the tents, and Roran marveled at the age where he had possessed such energy. He ducked back inside the tent, biting his lips with the frustration he felt and what he would no doubt receive from Katrina.

She was leaning against the table of his letter, waiting for his return to fill her in on the knock. Her eyebrows raised at his downcast face and he sighed in preemptive exasperation. "Nasuada wants me in the council tent."

"Again?" Katrina exclaimed incredulously. "Roran—"

"I know, I know," Roran said, crossing to pull on his rough coat, sliding his belt through his trouser loops. "Do you think I like it any better? I can't get away from it anymore than the next person, though. I promise I'll make it up to you, and I'll come back as soon as I possibly can."

They held each other's gaze for several long moments, and he felt her sigh uncontrollably. At length, she leaned up and kissed his cheek. "I'll wait up for you," she whispered.

"Don't bother," he replied, knowing she wouldn't like it. But he knew he may not be back until the early morning hours, and she needed her rest dearly. He smiled weakly at her before turning to leave the tent.

The sun was gone in the sky, the last remnants of its light sprinkling across the distant horizon. Torches mounted on stilts cast light on the bustling camp, busy even as dusk descended onto them. Roran sidestepped many people rushing past with heavy bundles and bulky packages as he navigated his way through the crossing tents towards the command post. A number of people shouted to him, courtesies akin to "Hail, Stronghammer" raining good-naturedly through the air. He greeted them without indulging in their admirations. Of those that called, he was surprised to discover that he failed to recognize the majority.

He wished he could indulge in jokes and shared beans like some of the soldiers he saw clustered around a fire, laughing away at some horrible slur or another. That was not the way of his position, however, and he accepted the reality with a peace he had become accustomed to. He watched the skies, instead, wondering if the Varden's dragon was flying them tonight. That is, unless they were still away on their missions, as Roran had been informed they were at. The past few days had been especially occupying for Eragon, he knew, and they had rarely seen each other.

Roran entered the small enclave off of which Nasuada's council tent was situated, nodding to the chieftain of the Urgal guard and approaching the entrance. He exchanged a brief word with the two human sentinels and then passed through, ducking slightly under the low opening.

The table that had stretched the length of the tent earlier in the tent had been removed, now leaving only a central chair for Nasuada and a series of other chairs lining the walls for the other council members. Jörmunder and two of his subordinates were standing in front of some of these chairs, discussing something or other relating to troop deployment. Nasuada sat in her chair, conversing with another messenger.

She turned to face him as he entered and stood to greet him. "Roran, thank you for coming at the hour."

"Not an inconvenience," he lied. "What's the occasion?"

"Eragon has returned, with a very important and dangerous piece of reconnaissance. It changes the entire plan, and I need to discuss what has been decided with all of the commanders immediately if we are to prepare in time." She spoke with magnitude, but not urgency, which left him speculating that their position was not in danger. Still, her words left him with many questions.

"What has he discovered?"

"I'd prefer to say it once all of the commanders have arrived," Nasuada replied. Her eyes were featureless, giving him no clue to her emotions or her intentions. "We're only waiting on a few more, and then we can commence the meeting and you can all begin your attendance to duty as quickly as possible."

Roran's spirits fell. By her implications, he wouldn't be returning to Katrina anytime soon. If tonight, at all. His face stayed neutral, however, and he only nodded and gave a short bow before moving towards one of the side chairs and seating himself. He had no desire to engage Jörmunder in discussion at the moment.

The final commander they were waiting on, a younger man called Darvin who commanded the archery regiments, arrived in a matter of minutes, looking flustered and still pulling on his coat. The top few buttons of his shirt remained undone, and Roran could only contemplate silently and uncomfortably what had been interrupted at the man's tent. He murmured an apology for being late as Nasuada raised her own eyebrow, but sat down without implication and was quickly forgotten.

Jörmunder nodded to Nasuada as he remained standing, and when she was sure she had their mutual attention, the leader of the Varden began. "I appreciate your haste at this hour, but I've called you for the only reason that time is not on our side and we have a lot to accomplish in a very short number of hours. Today, I sent Eragon and Saphira out at an early hour to get a lay of the land around Belatona and Dras-Leona, and they returned just at sunset with grave news for our plans:

"A regiment of reinforcements for the Empire has just arrived at Dras-Leona, numbering in the multiple thousands. Eragon believes, and I concur, that a large number of these fresh troops will be allocated to Belatona to hold against a strike we will make."

Roran's breath caught as he realized what she was saying. This was a traumatic turn of events against all favor of the Varden. He had sat through meetings where the council of elders and other intelligent commanders had argued, and he had grudgingly agreed, that the Empire was already spread too thin to relocate troops when the elves were attacking strong in the north and the south was already well underway to being lost. The consensus had been concurrent and nearly unanimous, and the plan Eragon had brought to the table had been embraced as the balance between their few spy reports.

This shocking revelation changed everything.

"Is he sure of this?" Roran remarked, leaning forward in his chair in apprehension.

"He shared images of the force from his own mind with me. There is no doubt that there are situated comfortably in Dras-Leona now as the day ends, and I share his belief that they will not remain stationary for long. Our conclusion is that within two days they will march to reinforce Belatona."

"Are their numbers substantial enough to throw our victory in question along the current plan?" Jörmunder inquired from where he stood, quickly becoming a forefather of the conversation.

"As far as could be seen, they will be carrying enough supplies with them in caravan to stand for days longer than anticipated, and without the wear of combat on their bodies they will prove more resilient to the winter than the soldiers already forced back to Belatona. Even by our measures, they may withstand our incursion from behind the fortress walls and repel us. We fear victory will be much more difficult to attain, or, in short, impossible."

The tent was silent. Jörmunder stood with his hands clasped behind his back. Roran would have expected him to look almost pleased that Eragon's plan would fail, but the only thing he could discern from the large man was the legitimate scowl painted across his worn face. The other commanders, Roran could see, were equally stupefied.

One of them, a short, immensely stocky pipe-smoker called Mason, said, "If we can't take the city in winter, my Lady, then, do we wait for spring?"

"Or should we ride out with the cavalry and the dragon rider and intercept these reinforcements?" the final commander, O'Ryan, asked.

"That situation is too risky," Nasuada replied, and Roran agreed. "Even with Eragon, the chance is too steep that Murtagh will swing out of the sky without expectation and take you completely by surprise. I'm not willing to take that chance and the Varden can't afford to. No, our decision was to take action and we need to take action. The plan I've now adopted doesn't involve us facing the reinforcement army at all—it turns their march into a race with our armies to see who can reach Belatona first."

Roran digested this at the same time as Darvin and O'Ryan launched their protests. "My Lady!" O'Ryan exclaimed. "The men are even now preparing to hold down through the first winter storms, packing their arms and reinforcing their tents! These were your orders, already in motion! Now you ask them to undo those actions and march twenty leagues for battle so quickly."

"My men are ill-prepared for such a journey on foot, especially after the beating they took with Feinster!" Darvin added.

"It is the only course of action that doesn't involve us throwing our hand to the Empire, Captains," she said, addressing them both directly. "Our other option results in holding Feinster for the full extent of the winter and pushing against a strong and virtually impenetrable Belatona come spring."

Roran nodded. "But do we have the speed to beat the armies across the plains, my Lady? The journey from Dras-Leona is much easier than ours would be."

"We will break the bridges on the Jiet River as per our previous plan to slow them down, if not halt them completely," Nasuada replied, returning his nod. "That _should_ buy us the time we need, as the river is extremely difficult to ford. A battle will still ensue, and casualties will result. They will be minimized with our taking before the numbers arrive, however. And, if luck holds true, the Empire will be trapped on the opposite side of the Jiet."

"I'm not sure I'm comfortable with this," Jörmunder said plainly, only for Nasuada and indifferent to the other occupants of the tent. "It's risky. The timing and performance of the Shadeslayer or the spellcasters must be flawless, or at the very least so early that the Belatona forces will be alerted to our approach quickly."

"Retreat is always an option up until the moment we meet the forces of opposition," Nasuada pointed out. "Although a detestable one. If the elements are overwhelmingly in the enemy's favor, I will order the withdrawal myself."

"My Lady," Roran began quietly, "what if the Empire foresees this?"

"I don't see how they could, Captain," Nasuada replied. "Unless they have a spy in our camps that is close enough to gather information directly pertaining to these councils in this tent. In any case, we cannot afford our measures to speculations and unanswerable questions. The matter is simple, gentlemen—we must march on Belatona at the nearest convenience. And the nearest convenience is the day after tomorrow."

"The leaves us little time to reorient our men," O'Ryan protested.

"We don't have the time to spare," Nasuada said. "I'm sorry, gentlemen, but the matter is not up for debate. If we are to be secure both in safety and operations this plan must not fail. The winter is nearly upon us. The room for questioning is over."

No one said another word against the matter.

"Will there be anything else we need know about before we begin our preparations?" Jörmunder asked.

"No, that will be all. I expect all available troops to be ready to march in one day."

"Very good, my Lady," Jörmunder dipped in his meager bow and strode quickly from the tent. Roran followed him swiftly, and assumed the other three were right behind them both. Roran would have stayed to ask her a number of more questions on the issue, but the workload he had in order to make his men ready to move within a day was immense. And he would have to accomplish it in the middle of the night.

He very briefly considered stopping at his tent to check on Katrina, but knew he would only meet her wrath that he would be out the night again. Much as he felt obligated to her, his wife, the only thing that mattered in the grand scheme of his life, he couldn't shirk this duty. Not now.

His group was stationed at the northernmost end of the camp, and he rushed there now. His explanation was brief, only that they were moving out within two days and they had to be ready for a prolonged march within one. He felt a great deal of pride that they never protested his order for hasty preparation.

The only person who said anything was a boy who couldn't have been more than fifteen years old. "Will we be marching on the king, Stronghammer?"

Roran had found that answer difficult to answer. "Not yet. In time."

He let those who held shifts of duty during the daylight hours sleep away the night, while he himself set the night watch into preparation. He would supervise them when they awoke in the morning undergoing the same tasks the night workers were doing now. He had already resigned himself to the fact that he wouldn't be sleeping tonight—or tomorrow, for that matter. He would have to stop by the tent sometime during the day if only to let Katrina know what was going on.

He was going into battle again. Goodness, she would have a fit.

_It can't be avoided._

Nor could his exhaustion. Too many inevitable things compounded as he wrapped up his men's camps, hearing the changes occurring all across the Varden camp. Horns sounded; horns to call assembly in the deepest hours of the night. Even those, the civilians, who would never march into combat knew that something large and climactic was coming. Roran tried not to think about them too much, keeping his focus on the men.

The regiment prepared their weapons. As the sun rose in the distance after so many hours, the shifts changed for rest. Roran, ignoring the protests of several of his men, stayed on to make sure he approved of what the new shift was doing. They would be ready to go when Nasuada called for the army to move out, the _first_ ready… of that he was determined.

A thought wandered into his mind as the morning hours passed him by, the same iterations of supervision becoming second-nature. The curiosity of the thought helped to keep him awake to a certain point, because the unanswered nature and practical example confused him. Eragon hadn't been present at the council last night. If he had _made _the discovery of the Empire's reinforcements with his own eyes, why wasn't he there to brief the council on what he had seen himself?

He was still wondering this as the camp folded in on itself by his men's hands, and they had begun to assemble their armor by the time the sun had begun its final lament on the way back to the horizon in the distance. After two meals and a vicious confrontation with his wife, Roran was ready to retire for a few weak hours when from behind him he heard, "I can't imagine how busy you've been keeping."

He turned to find his elfish cousin half-grinning behind his back. It was almost as if he were looking at a mirror image of himself for a moment, for all of the dirt and exhaustion they shared. Minus the pointed ears, of course. Saphira was nowhere to be seen, but there wasn't enough room for her amongst the supplies that was Roran's quickly-imploding camp. Roran surveyed Eragon momentarily and replied, "And what in the hell have you been doing to get so dirty?"

"Running."

"Running?" Roran repeated incredulously. "When you could've been helping me and my men?"

"Seems you handled the workload just fine yourself," Eragon replied. "I needed some time to think. Saphira's hunting before the long journey we'll all have and my head's fogged up with some pretty troubling things right now."

Roran grunted, indifferent. He watched his men complete the final preparations for the morning's march as the night-shifters began to wake up again. They would all have to be well-rested come morning. "Was this whole thing your idea?"

"For the most part, yes," Eragon said. "Do you disapprove?"

"No. The Empire must not be allowed the upper-hand again. Belatona must be captured, that is the right of the way. That's being accomplished by this, so this is the obvious correct course of action." Roran paused. "Why didn't you tell us what was going on at the council last night? Where were you?"

"Running."

"You've been running all day?"

"I had a lot to think about."

Roran was well aware of the muscular endurance elves possessed, and while it was no surprise to him that Eragon looked exhausted from running it was quite a shock to find that he looked so well for having run for the better part of a day. He swallowed the statement before he could say it aloud, and said instead, in summary, "You look tired."

"Just hungry," Eragon replied. "How go the preparations?"

"We will be ready by morning."

"Good. Nasuada will be very pleased." There was something in Eragon that didn't seem right. Roran couldn't tell whether it was the body language, or the way he stared out at the men, or if it was simply because he was detached from Saphira. It wasn't even as if there was something wrong… it was as if Eragon were trying to look like something was _right_.

"Are you all right?" Roran asked his cousin.

"What?" Eragon said, snapping his gaze from the men. Roran watched as he belatedly digested the older man's words. "Yes, I'm fine, yes. Just tired."

"A minute ago you said you were 'just hungry'," Roran replied. Eragon didn't say anything; he only glanced out across the Varden, trying to shield his face from Roran's view without making it seem like he was doing so. Roran took a step forward, so he was back in his cousin's visual spectrum before saying, "What's wrong, Eragon?"

There was a silence, awkward and miserable and disrupting and the whole lot of undesirable things, yet not once did Eragon ever give off an outside aura of discomfort. Only because of who he was and how they had interacted once upon a time did Roran understand that something was bothering the young dragon rider. When it felt to his tired mind like another hour had passed in silence, Eragon sighed. "Will you walk with me?"

Roran glanced at his men. The last tents were being folded up, save for those still housing the sleeping. The weapons were assorted, being polished, nearly ready for action. There wasn't a hint of dallying consideration or meandering sway. His men had their things under control. He glanced back to Eragon and nodded.

They trudged together away from the camps to the east, passing through the remnants of the northern tents being packed up for travel. As Eragon continued his pace, saying nothing, Roran observed the other commanders ordering their men about. He was sourly tempted to ask why they were walking without talking when talking was their main goal, but resisted and held his tongue. There was a possibility that this was all but a test for Eragon to see whether or not he possessed patience, foolish a test as that may be.

As they left the last camps behind and began making the short walk to the oceanside, Eragon finally spoke. "Before my masters were killed in Gil'ead, they taught me to lead an existence as a rider of solving conflict with combat only when you have no other choice. Never seek it out, always find the problem and use insight and cunning to avoid pulling blades from scabbards. That's the way the elves do it… That's the way the rider is supposed to live his life."

"If that were true," Roran cut in, "then why were—why _are_—dragon riders trained to be so adept on the battlefield?"

"Because when the battle is unavoidable we _must_ be the ones that prevail in the end, in the name of the kingdom and what is right. If our diplomacy fails us, our sword is designed to withstand the worst we could not overcome with words."

"This thought troubles you?"

"Not in the context I have spoken in." Eragon paused atop a small cliff face, twenty or so arms above a rocky beachhead which stretched around a few hundred paces until it met and clashed with the churning sea. They both stared out into the waves, into the fantastic colors the sun cast down unto the water from behind their backs. While Roran was effectively entranced by the beauty, Eragon continued. "I sought out this battle, Roran. Not for bloodshed. But for taking Belatona, I found this battle and I made a plan so it would happen. There is no other option, of course, so my training _should_ tell me I've done the right thing in utilizing war to meet the ends of my means."

A fierce wave hit the shoreline, shooting spray higher into the air than Saphira's wingspan.

"But this does not feel right," he added.

"Was there a way around it?" Roran asked gently.

"Not that I can see. Not short of holding through winter. But I can't shake the feeling that I waited for this opportunity… so that I could press forward against the Empire. They must pay for the death they have caused. I feel as if I have pushed for battle only to wreak vengeance on those who have taken the good from the world. And _that_ is _wrong_."

Eragon fell strangely silent, and for several moments the only sounds were the echoes of mankind from the operations behind and the uncontrollable fury of the sea ahead. Roran considered his cousin's words, weighing them heavily in his mind before speaking. "It is not wrong to push against the hold of Galbatorix. There is no wrong in that. The king answers to one vessel… war. You've tried everything, and there is no option but war. That satisfies your training."

"The elves condemn battle," Eragon replied. "Arya condemns it. She told me not to suggest a course of battle. I did anyway."

Roran paused a moment. Then, despite himself, and to Eragon's evident agitation, he started laughing. Quietly. "Is that what this is about?"

"What?"

"The elven lady told you not to suggest the battle. Arya told you not to do it. You're confused and distraught now because she's upset with you and you've been following what you thought was best all along."

"No," Eragon exclaimed quickly. He was shaking his head the instant Roran began talking. "That's not it at all. I just feel off because of what is happening here, now."

"No, Eragon," Roran replied. "I understand. I really do."

"There is nothing for you to understand!" Eragon argued.

"I was there, that night near Dras-Leona. You told me—well, Saphira told me more than anything else. I know how it is when you've upset someone you love."

"It's more complicated than that." Eragon's voice had turned to a snarl. "She…" He caught himself, and Roran realized that with little effort he had first surmised correctly and squeezed the problem from his cousin's mind, all the while staying inside of the confines of his own. "She's not the only reason. Just the embodiment. She represents everything I knew of my masters. I upset her; I upset them. They would not have questioned my judgment but they may well have been against it. I feel as if their disappointment rains down on me from the sky…"

The sea broke in as Eragon finished. Roran glanced at him; he looked even more troubled than before. The rider's mouth hung open as if words hung on the edge, threatening to tip out but trying desperately to restrain themselves in. "Go on," Roran urged.

Eragon turned his elven eyes unto Roran's. Nothing but brotherly affection passed between them, and finally Eragon relented. "And then there is her. She told me not to, yet I did. I apologized, she didn't accept it. I tried to make amends, she acted as if there was nothing that had broken. Now I feel lost in the eyes of my training, and where I would usually go for her to help I have lost the road."

They stared out amongst the rocks of the beach, down to the ocean. Roran thought he should say something, but he couldn't come up with the right thing for the right time.

Eragon sighed. "I just can't follow my training and her at the same time."

"Then make a choice."

It was Eragon's turn to laugh. "I can't choose between fighting the Empire and her beliefs. I'm the only hope the Varden's got left, people shout that to me in the streets every day. I _believe _in fighting Galbatorix, I do it freely. She fights, too, but the manner in which she does it is completely different. Besides, no matter the course I choose, it will never be enough for her approval of my actions."

"Well, Eragon, here it is for you… do what she wants or don't. It's that simple."

"That's _not_ simple."

"It is the simplest thing there is," Roran retorted, his voice rising slightly as he pushed his point towards his cousin, anxious for the light to be seen. "There are two options, and you can only choose one of them. Make it, and move on."

Eragon turned to him. "Does Katrina believe in you fighting? Does she support you when you run out onto the plains to enter battle?"

"Yes, she does," Roran answered without hesitation.

"Does she? Does she truly?"

"Of course. She understands the treachery of the Empire and the way it treats its citizens, how it taxes the weak and makes a mockery of everything good. She would be ashamed if I did not take up arms and go and fight for the country as it was good."

"Very well," Eragon replied, but he didn't appear satiated. "Now, _Stronghammer_… if she asked you to lay down your weapon—asked you to run away from the battle and never look back again—would you do _that_?"

"Absolutely."

"Are you sure? Or are you lying to me?"

"I speak only the truth, Eragon."

They stood facing each other, both of their expressions grave and unyielding. It was as if they were young in Carvahall again, locked in a contest where they held their eyes open as they stared at each other. The first to blink would be the loser, and they held each others' glare with such ferocity that some of the clapping of the sea nearby may have been their own emotions. As the moments passed, Eragon finally stood straight up, turning away from Roran, staring out to the sea. Roran heard his cousin take a shaking breath, his eyes darting away from where the two were standing, far to their right, as the last hints of daylight waned from the world.

"Then you are a stronger man than I." Eragon turned and walked away, back toward Feinster with the stride of an exhausted mind.

Roran turned to follow Eragon's last gaze to its final destination, and felt surprise cloud his mind as his eyes rested on the endpoint. The elven woman stood just inside of a ridge that would have blocked her from their view, a short yet sizable distance away. There was no mistaking her look of coldness, and her eyes tracked Eragon's receding form with a compulsion Roran could only describe as revulsion. For a split second so brief that Roran could barely register it, her eyes shifted unto him and their gazes locked together.

He blinked, and the elf was gone.

* * *

><p><strong>I hope you enjoyed. This is probably my favorite chapter so far.<strong>


	9. 8: The March

**And so they set out. At the end of their current road, things will change forever…**

**Thanks to reviewers: RestrainedFreedom (x2), Tsukune08, Castaway5 and Pens Insanity.**

**Disclaimer: I (don't) wake up in the morning feeling like C. Paolini. (Mark it if you understand this reference?)**

**8**

**The March**

They set out at dawn.

Nasuada and Jörmunder, side-by-side atop their steeds, led the front of the army. Nar Garzhvog walked with them, his head nearly level with Nasuada's even though she rode atop a horse. His trusted rams walked with them. Arya and the guard of twelve elves had chosen to travel by foot, and carried along with the leader of the Varden near the head of the group. They, along with Du Vrangr Gata, composed the sole complement of spellcasters the army held in organization. The dwarves were not in shape to join them on their quest to take Belatona. Roran rode with his regiment. Secretly, something he only conveyed to Saphira, he was glad Nasuada had joined their march, despite the risks; it prevented Jörmunder from usurping her power through a commission of the battlefield.

Eragon rode Saphira, and it had been far too long since they flew without direct haste, having to keep pace with the army beneath them. The time they had to spare they spent indulging together on the wind, enveloping themselves in clouds and wrapping each other in the others' presence, physically and mentally. Eragon anticipated no great body taxation in the coming combat. If he and Saphira disposed of enough of the Belatona guard themselves, the Varden would have little to do but storm the empty walls and conquer the citadel and castle. After they disposed of the bridges, all would be simple. All would be well.

_I yearn for the day when we can fly free, wherever we wish to go,_ Saphira dreamed to him, and they shared momentary fantasies of flying to places no map had ever shown them, visiting lands that none had returned from. _I have never once flown in this country without worrying who might below watching me… how I might be discovered. So soon we might get the chance, little one._

_Aye_, Eragon replied, indulging in her fantasies, but his mind transitioned to less happy places when she referenced time. He pushed it quickly from his mind. Now was a joyous time, not one for speculation and anxiety. _The skies will be yours to command forever, Bjartskular. Deer the land over will fear you._

She snorted at his wry teasing. _And you will be the Master Rider, young Shadeslayer. Dwarven maidens the land over will yearn to lure you into their bedchambers—_

_Come off that_, he shivered. Her body shook and they dropped several dozen feet as laughter wracked her body. _That was uncalled for…_

_I'm sorry, little one, _Saphira said, though the laughter still boiled inside of her soul. Eragon shook his head, hair flapping in the wind. His armor felt stiff for some reason today, even though it had been but a few short days since last he had worn it. Saphira wore none, and it was well, for she would not have been able to fly with all of her laughter had she been weighed down any further. _Forgive me. I meant to say Urgal—_

He abruptly shut her off from his consciousness, as their altitude dipped once more as a result of her terrible sense of humor. She didn't seem to mind, although he was sure she'd be begging him back within the minute. He gazed over her side. Far below, an army of ants that represented the only hope he knew marched with them. He stared to the front of the deceptively small column to where the leadership was. His thoughts rested briefly on Arya. She was avoiding him and he knew it. He didn't know when he would be able to garner an audience with her again. He would probably have to bring an array of flowers from Ellesméra and beg forgiveness just to release a few words she would hear.

Saphira abruptly tucked her wings and barrel-rolled to the left before straightening out again. Eragon restrained the yelp that rose to his throat but was forced to latch on with his hands for fear of falling off. He opened his mind back up. _For the love of all things ancient, never scare me like that again._

_I missed you, too._

Eragon grunted, staring down at the landscape far below once more. _I wonder how their journey goes._

_Ask them._

_She won't answer me._

_There are others who would honor the call of your voice. _He found agitatedly that she was right, and that once more his personal difficulties had interfered with his judgment. He scowled at her scales, but meant and sent no ill feeling. As her amusement only grew again, which annoyed him slightly, he cast out his mind to the lead elven spellcaster far below. He met a wall, but familiarity helped him be heard through the defenses.

_Peace, Blodhgram,_ Eragon called.

The resistance that met his push disappeared, only to be relocated to a defense warping around their link. _Greetings, Shur'tugal-elda_. The use of the honorific term surprised Eragon, but he kept their bond free of emotion. _How may I service you?_

_How goes the march on your level?_

_All is well,_ Blodhgram replied. _Lady Nasuada is pleased with the progress we are making. She is wondering and hopes you can discern… our current pace puts us on track to camp for the night around two leagues south of Belatona, is that correct?_

_Yes,_ Eragon answered. _We must light no fires tonight and the men's noise must be kept to a minimum. The wind has shifted and will carry any sounds northward towards the city. Any excess disturbance and our operation may be discovered._

_Lady Nasuada says it will be an uncomfortable night for the men._

_It is necessary_, Eragon stated.

_Very well, Shadeslayer,_ Blodhgram sent, but he sensed it was Nasuada who spoke. A moment later, Blodhgram spoke for himself. _We will be prepared by nightfall for when you call us to break the bridges, Eragon-elda._

_Thank you. Stay with the Varden until then. Keep an eye on Jörmunder, and keep _that_ to yourself._

_Understood._

Eragon withdrew from the elf's mind, glancing towards Saphira's half-turned eye, irritated. _If I'd wanted to speak with Nasuada, _he told his dragon. _I would have simply entered _her _mind myself. Does no one hold an open audience with me anymore, Saphira?_

_Self-pity doesn't suit you, _Saphira replied, turning back forward. _You and I could reach Belatona in a matter of minutes, yet we are held back by the pace of the grounded. _

_Frustration knows no anger like a dragon's impatience_, Eragon replied. _I would just, for the moment, appreciate the fact that we're together, we're flying, and I don't see a red or black dragon shooting through the heavens trying to blot out our lives from existence. That counts for something, eh?_

She said nothing, and they glided in companionable silence for some time. Eragon hummed a merry tune Brom had been fond of so, so long ago. The more he thought of it, however, the more he realized it had been not-so-long ago. Long in age. But not in years. He scratched at his face, at his ever-exasperating stubble, remembering the scraggly beard Brom had supported. Brom. _My father._

_You miss him._

_That's not a question, is it?_ he asked her. _Every day. Almost as much as I miss you, sometimes. Why didn't he ever just tell me? Oh, well, _he quickly resolved, before she had the chance to antagonize him for dwelling in the past. _I only wish he had known how much I loved him, as his son—not the farmboy he turned into a rider._

He could feel her own loss at his words, but they spoke no more until they banked to meet the Varden as they halted ten minutes for a respite. He landed at the head on the battalion, startling the Urgal leaders and eliciting cries and cheers from the army men. He disembarked from Saphira's back and leapt down to join the rest of the head on the ground level. Many leagues has passed; many still lied between them and Belatona.

"Our progress is good, Eragon, do you agree?" Nasuada asked him from atop her steed. Jörmunder had dismounted and was pacing the dirt, conversing as always with his subordinates. A brief lunch of bread and cheese was hastily being distributed amongst the men. Casting his mind to them all, Eragon was pleased to find them all in relative good spirits.

"Aye, my Lady," Eragon replied, after his customary bow. "The morale of the troops is very good. However, I would advise that they begin to reduce the noise they make, lest it lead to our discovery as we approach ever closer to Belatona."

"They will, Shadeslayer," Jörmunder said, joining them, nodding to Eragon. Their relationship seemed on the mend and on the climb, despite the march they were undertaking and Eragon's caution of the commander. "We remain on schedule, it would seem. My Lady, I would like to make a suggestion."

"Proceed," Nasuada nodded.

"I advise that Eragon and Saphira fly to the northeast and discern whether or not the Empire's troops have set out from Dras-Leona and how much headway they have made travelling south. The wind that aids us will certainly hinder them, yes, but I am concerned they set out earlier than our predictions."

Nasuada considered the matter for a moment. Eragon felt Arya glance towards him for a moment, but by the time he had snapped his gaze to lock hopefully with hers the green eyes he sought were elsewhere. "Normally, I would agree with you perfectly, Commander, but he need Eragon's vantage point in the sky to aid us if we encounter any unforeseen challenges."

Jörmunder's lips tensed, but he bowed all the same. "As you wish, my Lady."

A moment passed where none would have dared talk but Nasuada. She finished chewing her piece of bread, no better or larger or crisper than that which was given to the next soldier. She dusted the crumbs away from her face and thin armor, and addressed all assembled. "I think it's time we began again before we get too comfortable. Sound the up, Jörmunder."

Horns carried for leagues, and therefore none were sounded. A rallying call was instead passed between the troops, accomplishing the same task in only a slightly longer timeframe. Within three minutes of Nasuada's decision, the Varden army was back on its feet and moving at a face similar to, if not quicker than, their previous march.

The day drudged on, and the Varden did not rest again. Finally, as the sun began its inevitable descent across the afternoon sky, Eragon felt the bodies of the troops begin to tire. They had much ground yet to go, and they had to press on. _They've traveled fifteen leagues already, at least. That's more than can be asked of men. They still have over five they still must cover._

_They will make it_, Saphira assured him, but he took little content in her words.

Finally, they swooped low above the troops and she made a visual showing of her flying prowess. As hoped, the sight of her spinning against the throws of the wind inspired energy in the troops, and they pressed onward. As the sun began to lower over the horizon, they climbed once more to see the great city of Belatona sparkling with a certain dullness to it in the vast distance. They were still at least three leagues off, but with an army of _men_ that had covered over twenty in a single day, this was an insignificant total. Through Blodhgram, Eragon suggested to Nasuada they camp at this safe distance, and the Varden leader agreed.

"It has been a remarkable day, Eragon," Nasuada said when she had dismounted her horse, and he had landed safely on the ground once more. Despite her having ridden a horse all day, the mental strain had clearly taxed her energy as well. "I would never have thought it within our ability to make it this far."

"My Lady," he bowed. "With your permission, the army must rest as quietly and as soon as possible. I plan to take my spellcasters and break the bridges at first light. We will then have from then until the Empire finds an alternative way to cross the river to successfully take Belatona."

Nasuada nodded. "I understand. In a half hour, let's converge back here at the head of the army. I'll have the commanders and Arya. We'll form our plan of attack then, and rest before we make our attack."

He bowed again and remounted Saphira. They flew to Roran's regiment and disembarked once more to the great pleasure of the men there. Roran, who looked more exhausted than Eragon could ever imagine another human being, smiled nonetheless and clapped his cousin on the shoulder. "We made it, brother. We made it the distance."

"Aye," Eragon agreed. "Nasuada is to gather the commanders for a battle plan in a half hour. If you want, you can ride back with Saphira and I."

Roran accepted and they returned to the council. A table had been laid out by the elves, and a crudely drawn map of the plain that separated their armies and Belatona now covered the face of it. Nasuada was present, as was Jörmunder. Roran conversed with the two leaders while they waited for the other commanders to arrive. Trianna, the current head of Du Vrangr Gata, arrived silently, as well. Eragon spent the minutes speaking quietly with Saphira, who rested directly behind him and stared over his shoulder. Unbeknownst to all but his dragon, his eyes also tried desperately to find Arya. To no apparent avail. She appeared mere seconds before Nasuada called for the attention of the commanders, leaving no time for Eragon to seek her audience.

A torch was lit to illuminate the map on the table, the only light amongst the thousands of soldiers. Eragon was less than surprised to find many of them already fast asleep. The march had surely taken its toll, and he hoped their battle readiness would not be tested by unnatural fatigue. As the last remnants of daylight began to flick out of existence, an Urgal shone the light over the table and Nasuada began to speak.

"Gentlemen," she said. "I congratulate you on a successful journey. However, the hardest part is yet to come. At daybreak, Eragon and his spellcasters—excuse me—our complement of elven spellcasters—will proceed to the Jiet River and break the bridges that the Empire may use to cross and reinforce Belatona. At dawn, the same time, the army will arise and march the remaining leagues to the city gates swiftly. With any luck, we will appear on their horizon and attack so quickly they will not discover what hit them until it is too late to defend themselves. However, unless Eragon and Saphira can remain out of the sight while they sabotage the river, we must make all haste and attack with force.

"Nar Garzhvog, I would like you to take your rams and charge the southern gate immediately under cover from our archers. Jörmunder's division will be right behind you. Roran, I want you to swing your regiment around and siege the west gate, catch them off-guard at multiple junctions. O'Ryan will split the medium between you two. Once the archers of the turrets are dispatched, he will surge his troops forward and proceed to reinforce the charge through the main gate.

"While this is happening, Trianna, I would like you to focus your spellcasters' power on the turret armaments. Do not let their archers cut down our forces. Once Nar Garzhvog and his rams reach the gate, magic may be required to force it open. Any of the Empire's own magicians must be found and exterminated immediately. Widespread casualties may prove catastrophic to the operation. Remain a safe distance away from the walls but within range to react should anything go cataclysmically wrong. Should a sudden change occur in battle, Trianna, you may be the first person I call upon.

"Once the gate is breached, Nar Garzhvog, Jörmunder's troops will break through and lead the charge into the city. Roran, if the west gate is fortified beyond ability to breach, withdraw and converge on the northern gate. Avoid their archers. With any luck, once we get behind their defenses there will be few left proud Empire soldiers with the will to put up a fight. Above all, do not let them gain the upper hand.

"Are their any questions, gentlemen?"

"The Urgal charge may sustain a heavy number of casualties," Jörmunder stated neutrally. For one who had never been fond of their presence and had fought viciously against them on the plains of Farthen Dûr, Eragon was surprised to find the commander speaking on their behalf.

"We will endure," Nar Garzhvog cut in indifferently. "As long as you complete the charge we begin, Chief Lightsword, we are confident are charge will be met successfully in the capture of your city."

The men at the table looked satisfied. Saphira bristled, and Eragon spoke as a channel between her and the congregation. "After we break the bridges, Saphira and I will rain what havoc we can on the Empire from the sky, but depending on the readiness of their archers our effectiveness will be limited. At the least, we should able to attract a significant amount of their attention away from the siege at their gates."

Eragon glanced at Blodhgram, nodding his consent for the elf to speak on behalf of the elven guard. "Lady Nasuada. We will proceed from the river to the east wall. We should be able to penetrate the city there with little trouble. Once inside the perimeter, we will dispatch what archers we can and proceed to dissuade any soldiers from fighting."

"Very good, Master Elf," Nasuada said. Blodhgram swallowed his obvious displeasure at the title. "Will you be accompanying Eragon, Arya?"

Arya's eyes flashed briefly with emotion only Eragon would have been able to see. Reading it was impossible. "Yes."

"Very good, then. Gentlemen, I pray it be a short night, full of rest, for us all. Tomorrow, we will achieve a large victory. Is there anything further? Questions? Concerns?" The commanders remained silent. Roran looked ready to pass out. "I bid you good night, gentlemen. May you rise with fire in your hearts and strength at your blades."

The men began to disperse. Eragon bowed in fealty to Nasuada and turned to make one last attempt at civilities with Arya. To his dismay, but not surprise, she was already gone. Saphira urged him, clamping to his resolution with her mind. _Quickly, little one, go after her. Before she disappears into the night._

He glanced at Roran, who stood waiting for Saphira to take him back to his regiment. He had seen the way Eragon snapped to Arya's absence, however; he gave a knowing smirk and held up a hand as Eragon tried to speak. "I think I'll walk back."

"No. Saphira, please take him." _Wiol eka._

Saphira turned a large eye unto him, and he could see her grinning although no expression, dragon or otherwise, appeared on her sharp facial features. She straightened and sauntered over to Roran. _Wiol ono, little one._

Together, his partner-of-mind and his cousin took back to the skies, and without delay he sprinted into the night, not quite knowing where he was going but knowing exactly what he was searching for. He left Blodhgram and the other confused glances of his elven guard at his back as he rushed away, but was thankful when they had no motion to follow him. He let his consciousness roam free, searching for Arya's, knowing full well it would be guarded beyond any meager hope to penetrate its outer layers.

He brushed against a mind he couldn't read, and sensed its presence displaced from the rest of the army by almost a quarter league. He rushed towards it immediately, covering the space in little more than a minute. Slowing on arrival, he very quickly realized it was she whom he sought. He carefully planned his motive and stepped forward so his intentions were clear.

From where she had been sitting cross-legged on the ground, Arya shot to her feet, whipping to face him. Coldness emanated from her mind, but before she could rebuke his hand of friendship he touched two fingers to his lips and murmured, "Atra esterní ono thelduin."

Her lips pursed together in a fierce white line, and he could see her inner conflict. Whether or not to rebuke him… whether to risk offending him or simply not caring, how his abilities would be affected by her response. They wouldn't, in any case, they both knew, but he watched her weigh her ensuing actions carefully. At steep length, she carefully raised her own two fingers and pressed them to her own lips with agonizing precise movements. "Mor'ranr lifa unin hjarta onr."

"Un du evarínya ono varda." Now his intent was clear; he was there to make amends, not try anything foolish or personal. The moment had arrived to speak his mind, and he suddenly realized he had prepared nothing else to say. "I believe it may be dangerous to sleep so far from the rest of the army," he stumbled, regretting his own words before they'd even left his lips. _You had all the things in the world to choose from. You choose that. What a blundering idiot you are._

"I will manage," she replied coldly.

He stared into her face. "Arya, I'm—"

"It is late, Shadeslayer," she cut him off, and his heart fell once more. "I am sure you need your rest. Please do not let me keep you."

He shivered with the chill her freezing words sent up his spine, but held his composure through the regret. He bowed slightly to her. "May your sword stay sharp, Svit-kona."

She nodded to him and he turned away to run.

He settled on the opposite side of the army, as far away from her as he could possibly get without feeling uncomfortable, and wrapped himself between Saphira's wing and her belly for the glorious warmth it spread to him. It was a cold night, without a single fire lit, and the breaths of thousands of soldiers could be seen on the air. He wondered whether or not Arya was cold, on the opposite side of the army. As Saphira drifted to sleep first, he sent a final thought into her dreams.

_I tried._


	10. 9: As Bridges Burn

**Here it begins.**

**Thanks to reviewers: ****Pens Insanity****, ****Tsukune08****, ****Nocturnal**** (x2), ****The Pro****, JackoShadeslayer575 and ****Elvendiath****.**

**Disclaimer: That's a triple negative, Bravo.**

**9**

**As Bridges Burn**

There were sentinels on both sides of the bridges, three at a time to a post and sheltered beneath a temporary roof and huts a short distance away. Twelve were no match for a dragon and fourteen elves, and Eragon wasn't worried about that fact. In all prospects, breaking two bridges with magic and taking out twelve unwary guards was little issue whatsoever. It was in the easy objectives he undertook that Eragon always felt precariously around the corners, suspicious of anything that could disrupt their equilibrium of consistency.

The spellcasters were hidden in a knoll approximately four hundred feet to Eragon's left, closer to Belatona, and closer to the first bridge itself. Saphira was lying flat on her belly, Eragon crouching next to her side, to stay out of sight of the human guards of the bridges. Arya was off on a tangent somewhere, and Eragon didn't know whether or not she would even answer if he called to her.

The guards were relaxing as the first rays of the sun shot over the eastern horizon. It would only be too easy to take them down. Eragon and the elves had only to wait until the first moments the sun actually became visible in the distance. That was when the Varden would finish the last league of their march and sprint upon the city walls. Their timing wouldn't have to be perfect… but the element of surprise was one characteristic of battle Eragon hated to have on any side but their own.

_The Varden grow restless_, Saphira murmured through their connection. Her head was cocked to the east, her mind and ears spread out to detect anything they had not factored into their careful planning of the moment.

_Human imperfections_, Eragon replied. He reached out towards the elves in the brush, whom were waiting with as much patience as the humans lacked. _Blodhgram, are you all in position?_

_Yes, Eragon-elda_, Blodhgram replied. _Awaiting your consent._

Eragon searched for the more elusive presence amongst the scantily lit hills surrounding the bridges. _Arya?_

_I am ready._

_Good_, he sent to them all. Daybreak was mere seconds away, if he were any good at judging the sun and its trends. Years spent enduring the hardships of farming in Carvahall had taught him well how to judge things by the eye, he imagined. He would have reached the very longest of distances to confer with Nasuada, but he was afraid he would become distracted and reveal his presence to any mind-sifter who happened to reside both inside of Belatona and in the employ of the Empire. So he stayed his thoughts and kept to the plan.

At long last, as he crept amongst the longer blades of dying grass and observed the soldiers laughing quietly in the morning breeze, cloudless skies above them, Eragon watched the terribly bright sliver of first sun pierce the spectrum of the world and shed non-reflected light unto the plains. As he imagined Nasuada was doing a little more than a league away, Eragon gave his first command. _Go_.

To his horror, he saw Arya rise from the fields a mere few paces from the shack. He leaped up to stop her, but it was far too late. He watched, standing straight up, dumbfounded, in the grass, in plain sight of the guards. Luckily for him, their human emotions had already enraptured their eyes around the body of the female elf approaching them, and he was far from their attention. Her hair had been arranged to cover her ears; they were not visible. Her weapons were concealed, and the leather she wore didn't seem to set off any alarms with the men. They were too enamored by the beauty of her expression.

She was smiling mischievously, something Eragon had never in his wildest hopes expected to see on her face, and he felt his face growing hot as she spoke. Her voice was like a songbirds finest serenade on the wind, and if Eragon's half-human instincts were any indication, the heart rate of the soldiers was shooting through their shack's roof. "And how are you gentleman doing this morning?"

They didn't even raise their weapons. They were quite in shock. One of them managed to stammer out, "G-g-greetings, m-ma'am."

Eragon was beside himself, wondering just what she was pulling. To his dismay, she approached closer still, reaching up and touching the youngest of the guards on his cheek. "I can't imagine how boring it must be out here all day, collecting so few tolls and in _so much _danger."

Breathless smiles had erupted on the guards' faces, and they had now turned their backs to where Eragon and his contingency of elven warriors were hiding. Arya's plan was clear now, as much fire as was burning inside of the rider at her execution of it. Suppressing growls that Saphira felt inside of them both, he asked his dragon, _Is this supposed to be retribution?_

Before Saphira could answer, Eragon watched her shift herself to pull the soldiers farther into her deception, her body now the striking feature that held their gazes. In doing so, however, her hair shifted—her left ear poked out, abruptly exposed, and one of the soldiers jumped frantically at seeing it.

The guard never got a chance to even shout a warning to his comrades. Blodhgram popped from nowhere in the brush along the path to the bridges a short distance away. Eragon watched him mouth quiet spells, and instantly the complement of sentinels dropped dead to the ground. Arya's face transpose d instantly from flirtatious and sly to cold and worn. The elves rushed up to meet her, and they sprinted up the slopes of the bridge over the Jiet.

Across the way, the three other guards sitting around over a cold breakfast had no time to react as their throats were slit. One tried to cry out, but an elf dispatched him quickly with an arrow through the mouth. As he watched their progress solemnly from across the river, Eragon leaped onto Saphira's back and the dragon went skyward, soaring over the shack, diving towards the second bridge.

Saphira was visible the moment she cleared the height of the buildings. Eragon heard startled cries as they descended upon the second shack of the Belatona side of the river. "Böetq brisingr!" Eragon shouted, wielding his magic on an outstretched arm before the soldiers had a chance to retaliate.

Guided by his hand, the shack exploded outward in a showering of debris and fire, and a number of screams penetrated the early day. Eragon was confident none of them would carry, but a number of bodies stumbled out of the wreckage, and the action had been clearly visible from the opposite side of the river. Saphira swerved viciously to take out the second cabin. With only a brief mental warning to her, Eragon released his leghold on the saddle and vaulted off her back, plummeting thirty feet to the ground before breaking his fall with an easy roll. He drew Brisingr from his scabbard just as a surviving guard strung a bow a number of paces away from the burning rubble.

"Letta du istalrí!" Eragon cried. The flames of the building extinguished instantly, and the man with the bow faltered in astonishment as this occurred. His lack of aggression gave Eragon the opportunity to charge, which the dragon rider took advantage of.

The guard's target rapidly became a moving blur, and he loosed the arrow wildly and sloppily with a cry of dismay. Eragon dodged the arrow and swiftly beheaded the guard, taking strain to make the death as simple and painless as possible. The body and head dropped side-by-side, and Eragon turned regretfully away from the violent scene.

Two others had survived. One was stumbling, trying to recover from the blaze and shock still. The other one had righted himself, however, and Eragon watched as he clumsily threw a dagger in the direction of the rider. Eragon dodged it easily, but discovered as soon as it had been thrown that the act had been a distraction—even as he jumped back to an aggressive defensive position, the soldier pulled a long, curved horn from his belt and took a breath to send forth a shrill warning for the city a half-league away to heed…

"Togira thra gröta!" As Eragon's spell left his lips, the soldier's body abruptly convulsed and dropped writhing to the ground as the horrible cracking sound of his throat imploding on itself prevented him from sounding the alarm.

His comrade rushed forward as he fell. His strung bow loosed an arrow that was surprisingly well aimed in Eragon's direction. Swinging Brisingr in a protective motion, Eragon's elven instincts barely managed to catch the arrowhead on the crest of their mutual blades and send it careening off course. The man's eyes betrayed his fear and he too lunged for the horn clutched in the death grip of his fellow soldier. Eragon reeled back and threw Brisingr, burying it to the hilt in the man's chest, and the brief escapade was no more.

Across the river, Saphira had barreled right into the shelter, splintering it and coming out of the other side completely unharmed. She caught two of the four soldiers in her jaws, and Arya, sprinting up from down river, had easily taken care of the remaining two. With hawk-eye vision, Eragon confirmed that Blodhgram and the spellcasters had easily taken out the rest of the soldiers at the final structure.

He quickly retrieved Brisingr and sprinted across the bridge, joining Arya as she cleaned her blade. Saphira landed gracefully next to them outside of the splinters of the shack, throwing aside the corpses of the Empire sentinels viciously as she did so. Eragon went straight to Arya and growled, "That was completely out of order! You took an outrageous risk exposing yourself to those guards!"

She blinked, her face completely impassive. "What is done is done, Shadeslayer. There is no going back on it now. My actions successfully completed our objective, and none of our number is harmed. I fail to see your objections."

Eragon whipped the blood from his blade and sheathed it angrily, stalking away to where the elven spellcasters were rushing to them. "Everything clean and done with?"

"Clean seems to be a subjective statement," Blodhgram replied with a certain sense of elven irony. Eragon could feel his protector's glances encompassing the two buildings the dragon and rider had taken care of; one blown to bits and the other simply rammed through. Eragon couldn't help but grin as he imagined how it looked through the furry elf's eyes.

"We won't have much time, I imagine, before the armies reach visual distance from the city," he said to the congregation of his guard, and Arya. "I trust it won't be a severe strain on your energies if you pool them and break that bridge at its fundamental base there?" He gestured at the bridge Blodhgram and the others had crossed, and various elves nodded.

The archer, Nívar, quietly said, "Will your own energies not be strained by the effort, Eragon-elda? A number of us will assist you, so that your energy is able to be expended on the battlefield, where it is far more useful."

Knowing his own powers stretched beyond the capacities that even the elves believed of him, though no where close to the power he required for his ultimate victory, Eragon shook his head. "Arya and I will take this bridge. We must act quickly."

Arya looked displeased at the prospect of joining him in the effort, but she was also the only one that Eragon trusted not to be suspicious of his great reserves of energy; after all, she knew the reasons he kept such things secret, and she wouldn't question him, especially through anger.

The groups nodded at his words and separated. Blodhgram and the other elves rushed back to their bridge and sprinted across to the Belatona side. Arya and Eragon traversed theirs as Saphira leapt up and glided across the length of the river, landing comfortably as they situated themselves into proper position.

"Shall you perform the honor of breaking the bridge?" Arya asked him, a question without feeling and starkly sounding like a challenge. Eragon glared at her, but she endured it, offering neither comment nor reaction. "Or shall I?"

"Do not pass this off as a trivial matter!" Eragon growled at her. His anger at her earlier actions pooled into his words, and somehow the elf princess seemed to pick up on this.

Arya cocked her head to the side, as if she were staring at something other than his face. Staring inside of him. "You let your emotions—your _human_ emotions—overpower your mind. Do not be so weak as to sink back into that which you were before."

"Do not speak down to me. I was perfectly happy where I was as a human, before you sent my fate at me…" He turned his back on her, reaching into the reserve of his magic without connecting into her mind. He felt the ground beneath him, and, reaching out, the wood that composed the stilts of these bridges. Outstretching an arm for the direction of his words, he sucked in a breath of concentration and cried, "Jierda du stalainí!"

A crack that echoed for leagues across the eastern plains resounded from the base of the bridge, where the supports thrust themselves into the dirt of the riverbed and climbed outward to hold up the expertly-constructed planks. The sound reverberated and as if from spontaneous action the logs composing the supports cracked jaggedly halfway up their base. Splinters shot in all directions of a circle and skipped across the rushing face of water as the massive structure abruptly began to sway in the currents. Under the unsupported weight and sway, multiple supports creaked as their fragmented edges crunched together, and a greater series of groans and fractures begun to appear amid the base of the structure. The bridge swung one way, halted, and then quickly leaned the opposite direction and toppled into the river. The bridge components latched and based on either side of the water were torn from their bases, showering earth into the water. Splintered base supports protruding from the river tore the bridge apart as it fell straight through them. With a giant splash, the structure struck the river in a splintered state and began to fall with the current south towards the sea.

Arya raised a hand and whispered, "Jierda." The remnant of the solid structure broke apart in a shower of wood, and a multitude of planks rested atop the rocking currents. Individually, they moved into the tide and slowly began to drift south.

Downstream, Eragon watch the other bridge break in its center and methodically tear itself apart into the water below. The elven skill put into the effort left a much cleaner break, and just as soon as they had attacked, the crossings at the Jiet River were no more.

Eragon turned to face Arya. Her eyes were looking across the plains, anywhere but his, but he knew exactly what she was thinking, despite her silence. The gaze she locked downstream with the elves involuntarily displayed the disdain and disapproval he felt emanate from her consciousness to his, whether she meant him to hear such feelings or not. He felt his anger rehabilitate.

_Enough, little one,_ Saphira growled, bending down towards him. _This is not the time for such arguments. You will have to resolve this later._

_You're right_, Eragon replied. "Nasuada will be expecting our support at the eastern walls," he said to Arya. "I trust you and the others can find your own way there?"

Arya turned to him briefly, seemingly ignoring his statement. "It seems we arrived at the right time." His eyes narrowed in confusion. In response to his perplexed eye, she nodded off towards the plains she had been so avidly concentrated on. Turning, Eragon found she had been paying attention to more than just the effort of avoiding him.

In the distance, perhaps five leagues at the most, where the plains were still dusty and rough, great clouds of dirt were hovering over the plains. There was no swirl and no resulting wind power visible. No human eye could have crossed the distance, and if weather was not the culprit of he sand whipping through the air, there was only one other possibility. The one they had anticipated.

"The Empire has moved quicker than we thought," he said.

Arya nodded. "Their way across the river is gone. If they attempt to ford it they will have to cross far to the south, where the Varden can ambush them easily."

"Unless they bring spellcasters. If they do, the Varden may be powerless to stop them at all, depending on how many they bring and how strong those that do appear are." He glanced to the west, where the Varden would probably begin their attack in mere minutes. "Nasuada must be informed of this."

"I will run to her," Arya immediately volunteered. Eragon didn't protest, and she nodded to his unspoken confirmation.

To the west, a horn of the Varden sounded.

They had been spotted in the distance and the army would begin its run on the walls immediately. The battle had begun. Without another word, Arya turned and sprinted across the hills towards where Nasuada would observe the battle from a safe distance. Knowing she would rush to the front lines the moment her message was delivered, he stared after her retreating back and felt his anger elusively slip away. As he disappeared, he murmured, "Atra ono waíse sköliro frá haina."

He turned to the spellcasters as they rushed forward to meet him, Blodhgram in the lead. Before the elf could even inquire for instruction, Eragon unsheathed Brisingr and quickly mounted Saphira. Grinning slightly at his furry comrade, the dragon rider said, "I'll meet you at the center of Belatona."

Without missing a beat, Blodhgram replied, "Understood, Eragon-elda."

The spellcasters broke into their own sprint, veering to the northeast from where they would charge the eastern rims of the city. Saphira kicked off of the ground in a spray of gravel and quickly ascended to a comfortable altitude. As they swerved away from the river and climbed to a proper height for observation, Eragon's eyes tracked across the leagues towards Belatona.

At the very edges of his perceivable spectrum, he saw the Urgals beginning their charge, rushing the open plain towards the city. They would meet an onslaught of arrows in only moments, but they ran towards their goal without fear; Eragon felt a considerable deal amount of pride for the Varden allies. On their heels rode Jörmunder and his troops, although they were clearly more hesitant to act. Once the walls were breached they would seize the city with little delay, and their archers would remove any more opposition met at the walls. In the farthest distance, Roran's division had broken off and was curling around to the west side. The bulk of the soldiers had formed a tight, long rank and was advancing slowly behind the steeds of their commanders.

Eragon tightened his hold on Saphira, catching her eye briefly as she folded her wings and they plummeted towards the turrets of Belatona's defense. As the archers realized what was hurtling at them from the sky, he grinned at her. _Take a deep breath_.

The siege of Belatona had begun.

* * *

><p><strong>Böetq brisingr — Broad fire<strong>

**Letta du istalrí — Stop the flame **

**Togira thra gröta — Cripple his throat**

**Jierda du stalainí — Break the supports**

**Atra ono waíse sköliro frá haina. — May you be shielded from harm.**


	11. 10: The Battle of Belatona

**Tee hee. Exhausting chapter. So much planning of the story… and it all starts here.**

**Thanks to reviewers: The Pro, RestrainedFreedom (x2), Tsukune08, Elvendiath, ShadedWriterOfTheDarkness, and Reader.**

**Disclaimer: :P**

**10**

**The Battle of Belatona**

From where she sat atop her steed Gladen, five times as far away from the castle walls as Belatona's arrows could reach, Nasuada watched as Nar Garzhvog fearlessly loosed a war cry and took the head of the Urgal charge. The Kull's viciously muscled back quickly began to recede, as his enormous legs carried him faster than the feet of a human could at the fortress of the Empire.

Jörmunder spurred his horse across the front lines of his men a final time, screaming to lift their spirits and summon forth their fury. Closing to a halt at their fore, he reared back on his steed's hind legs and cried for the charge, the early morning sun glinting high off of his armor. With a roar of obedience the hundreds of Varden soldiers under his command rushed forward, hasty to catch up to the Urgal horde already on the offensive. Even from her considerably distant vantage point, Nasuada could tell it would be a difficult race for the humans to win. She feared even the smaller Urgals would get trampled by the impatient Kull that sprinted beside them.

The numbers quickly dwindled around her, as the mass of the Varden's army pressed forward while her contingency and guard remained stationary. The plains that were visible to her between the storm of soldiers and the city walls became smaller and smaller and smaller gradually. The anticipated clash kept her adrenaline rising higher than she felt was appropriate as a composed leader, even from where she sat at a comfortable distance removed.

All of a sudden, a cloud formed just inside of the walls, and descended outwards towards her troop. Only as they fell upon the Urgals did Nasuada recognize them as simultaneously fired arrow barrage.

The results were grievous, but not crippling. A number of Urgals toppled where they hit. Several took a number of the pointed weapons to the body and shrieked in agony but kept running. Still more endured the contact without slowing down, perplexing the humans that followed their advance to no end. Nasuada herself raised an eyebrow at the event, but she was far more worried about the next volley—even Urgals could only endure so many pointed objects sticking out of their body.

She watched the second cloud inevitably enter the air, watched it fly, and fly…

…and fly. The arrows seemed to be caught on the air, she suddenly realized, as if halted by a supernatural force. She couldn't help but grin as they suddenly clattered down under only gravity's pull, and the fierce roar of a magnificent creature echoed throughout the plains.

Eragon and Saphira swooped down from the sky in the distance. Glorious blue fire rolled unhindered from the magnificent blue flyer's mouth, reigning hellfire from the sky. The blaze singed length upon length of Belatona's archers, and Nasuada watched the only arrows any survivors got off at the dragon soar terribly off course. The cheers of the Varden drowned out Saphira's roars as she swiveled midair for another attack run. She could only imagine what the archers in the turrets and atop the walls were contemplating as they watched their final moments fall down upon them from the sky.

The Urgals had to dodge the flaming cinders and bodies that toppled over the fortress walls as they took haven against the city gate, a set of tall, solid cinderblocks attached to the long communion barrier. A victory roar sounded as they wheeled back their massive hammers and slammed them into the gate, crumpling it a little more with each hit. It would be a matter of minutes before they would be able to push inside, but they were in prime position for the assault.

A flicker of incredibly quick movement startled Nasuada and her horse to their right, and the guard yelped and reeled to protect the leader of the Varden. As she staggered to face, however, Nasuada discovered only Arya breaking from a quick jog and coming to rest before her.

"Greetings, Lady Nasuada," the elf spoke. Her voice was quick and brief, as if she were anxious to be somewhere else. "I have come to inform you that we have been successful in destroying the bridges over the Jiet River. However, the army of the Empire is visible a number of leagues to the north on the plains of the opposite side. They should arrive within the coming hours, and the Shadeslayer and I believe they may try to ford farther downstream if it is at all possible."

"Will they be able to?" Nasuada asked, startled.

"Doubtful, but if they are successful their numbers may be significant enough to cause a great deal of difficulty with the further taking of the city," Arya replied.

Nasuada hid how much this news worked against her, and just how disappointed she felt at it. She considered her brief number of options. "Is the possibility a significant enough worry that we need divert attention away from Belatona to contain it?"

"Not as of now, my Lady. The Shadeslayer believes a number of spellcasters could be dispatched to easily ambush them before they had ample opportunity to cross. The option is risky, but unless the Empire has with it a great number of magicians there should be little issue with that course of action."

The dark-skinned woman nodded. "Then I don't think we can afford a diversion of men at this point. Have Eragon keep an eye on them from the sky if at all possible."

"Understood, my Lady."

"Good hunting, Arya," Nasuada bid her friend, and as quickly and startlingly as she appeared, Arya whipped away across the battlefield, crossing between battalions in a dash towards the western end of the city. Nasuada watched Saphira careen high over the walls, as terrified archers worthlessly sent arrow after arrow to track her flight but never pierce her flank. In a matter of seconds the Urgals would penetrate the wall and Jörmunder's forces would swarm into the city. The firefight would escalate. Nasuada grimly prayed that the casualties would be limited to those bearing arms…

* * *

><p><em>Roran encounters difficulties to the east<em>, Saphira said to Eragon as they veered sharply upwards, dodging the fire of bows as they prepared for their fifth dip to the walls. If Nar Garzhvog couldn't penetrate the city within the next minute, they had decided Eragon would break the gate open with magic, hopefully garnering a moment of surprise where the Varden could gain an advantage in storming the city. Below, Eragon could feel a thousand minds of exhausted Empire soldiers terrified beyond their wits and barely scrapping up enough nerve to raise their arms in defense. He had already pushed a conscious thought into as many as he could to surrender, without making his presence noticed. He had absolutely no idea how many would heed the notion.

_He fares well, he just hasn't breached yet_, Eragon replied, casting his glance off in his cousin's direction as he spoke. The archers were less densely located on the western wall than to the south, and Roran's own archers were shooting down twice as many above as they were losing beneath shields below. _Would you like to help him anyway?_

_No. Once the walls are breached I will have to land and allow you into the city. Your spellcasters have already entered below and trapping the Empire inside of their own barracks, uninjured. A most admirable tactic._

Eragon smiled at her tone, surprised and impressed as it was. _Bank and set me down on top of that turret near the gate tower_, he pointed out the direction in his mind. On instinct, his arm ripped Brisingr from its sheath and deflected an arrow in one motion too quick for any human to register. _And watch where you're flying._

Saphira growled and launched unexpectedly into a sharp dive. As she pulled out the wake of the wind her wings unfurled into the air sent a number of the remaining archers toppling over the rails of their stations, and they dropped backwards to an uncomfortable death at the ground twenty feet below. She dug her claws into the tearing wood as she landed, and Eragon leaped gracefully off her back and to the deck above the city walls.

She vaulted back into flight, as Eragon felt the tremors in the planks below from the Urgal hammers at the gate. To his left, the army roared as they watched him sprint across the top of the deck towards where the gate ended its extent. To his right, Empire soldiers were rushing forward hastily to defend in the case of the gate breaking. The cries of excitement from his left were countered with those of anxiety from the right.

He slid to a halt as the platform abruptly ended, leaving a drop to the ground at the area of the gate. Delving into the energy continued in the gems of his belt, Eragon focused all of his mind on the heavy stone gate and exclaimed, "Opíana du grind!"

Cries of alarm from both sides of the wall sounded high into the sky as the stone gates abruptly emitted a piercing, grinding sound and drifted open with little effort whatsoever. The normal gear mechanism snapped with incredible cracking noises as their job was done without their assistance. As Eragon recovered his energy from his reserves and ceased the flow from the belt, the Varden and Urgals recovered from their surprised and rushed into the city, clashing instantly with the Empire soldiers on the inside.

Eragon dropped so he was gripping the edge of the platform by only the lengths of his fingers and released himself, falling the remaining distance until he landed squarely amongst the Varden troops. Giving his enemies no time to react and his allies even a lesser amount, he rushed forward and swiftly dismembered the nearest opponent.

Far above, Saphira had circled once and then dived unto the western edges, where the elves were making quick work of whatever resistance they met. Through her eyes as he fought his own enemies, he watched her tear through the dense ranks that individual spellcasters were finding difficulty outmatching. Her roars scared any civilians quickly into the deepest recesses of their homes.

A Varden soldier was thrust by a brutish enemy into his side, and in his perception of Saphira's movements and actions, Eragon was thrown off balance. Ignoring the cry of the man who he collided with, he quickly rolled, evading sword slashes of his enemies, and jumped to his feet. Instinct and the thoughts of the man attacking him allowed for him to deflect blows while turned to regain his footing, to the utter confusion and horror of the opponent. Before there was ample time for reality to set in, Eragon swiftly sliced the head from the man and kicked the body over ruthlessly, intentionally. As desired, several soldiers who had witnessed this attack dropped their weapons and sank to their knees in front of them, seconds from being speared to death by the charge of Jörmunder's troops.

Smiling inwardly to himself, Eragon rushed into side alleys as the Empire abruptly began to retreat. The enemy divided and sifted into the streets, heading into more populated areas of the town where they could seek protection amongst the stalls and habitats. Eragon prayed the citizens were holed up well in their homes, for the battle of the Varden and its troops would soon stretch into the streets beneath apartment windows.

_Where are you, Eragon?_ Saphira said abruptly. _The soldiers are pooling towards the elves. They will either have to withdraw or you need to come— _Her voice in his mind stopped abruptly, and he was about to ask what was wrong when she continued, _Arya has arrived. Your presence would aid the elves still._

A flash memory of Arya's cold, set face permeated through his wall of focus. _I'm on my way. See if you can't scare the living spirit out of some of those soldiers before I get there, eh?_

_I'll do my best_. She snorted mentally and dived down towards the rooftops once more, disappearing from Eragon's field of vision as he hacked away a blundering axeman and dodged the attacks of a shield-wielding swordsman. With his superhuman agility and strength, he leaped over a tipped over wagon and rushed away from his unsuspecting attackers as they fumbled for their bearings.

Veering through the streets, he randomly stabbed a few soldiers who had gained advantages over Varden or Urgals, although the number of his allies grew quickly fewer the deeper he got in the city. A few times he even found himself jumping clean over columns of sprinting soldiers, both heading in the direction of the frenzy and a few running frantically away. _If Roran is successful, the city is all but ours._

_Aye_, Saphira replied. _Jörmunder's forces have captured the gate. Roran is coming through the east gate just now. Many Urgals have been killed, but I think I can see Nar Garzhvog moving through the streets south of your position._

_That, alone_, Eragon deadpanned, _is enough for victory._

He nearly lost his balance as he banked his body around a final turn, sprinting into a clearing in what appeared to be a poorer district of the city. Four elves were surrounding a well in the center, batting back attacks from a string of assailants, all clad in armor of the Empire. As Eragon streaked onto the scene, the bulk of the mass either cried out in fright or switched targets. The change was almost comical in sound, but Eragon wasted no time. He didn't even slow down.

He ducked the swings of the first two men. He cut the legs from beneath one of them with Brisingr and kicked them out from the other. Using the momentum from the cut, he swung his fire sword up to block the blow from a third man, the contact too short and fleeting to draw sparks. Leaving no time for reaction, he slashed the man's blade to the side and tore a fatal gash in his chest, already moving on to the next target.

A shadow appeared over his head and he turned swiftly to defend himself—Blodhgram dropped over his head from a higher target and sent a flurry of spells and melee attacks at their enemies. A number of bodies dropped or reeled after being struck, and in the space of thirty seconds the situation had altered from trapped elves to running soldiers.

_They are retreating towards the citadel_, Saphira told him. _A greater number have already holed themselves up in the small courtyard of the governor's home._

_Can you take care of that?_

_Yes, but I will wait until Jörmunder advances far enough to take the building once there are no soldiers left to defend it. I'm sure Nasuada would rather have the city leadership's cooperation rather than his head._

_Well said_. Eragon turned to the elves and flung his sword arm towards the direction of the city center. "Deeper in!" he cried, and they followed him as he led the charge after the retreating Empire. "Towards the citadel. If we can cut off enough of their troops they may not be able to put up a fight once we get there!"

They ran into a junction of city roads. One of them, a main street of Belatona, led straight forth to the governor's house, a tall, slanted-roofed building residing near the center of the city. The citadel towered a short distance away, and Saphira roared as she soared directly over their heads on her way to dispose of the meager and rapidly falling guard number. Eragon couldn't spare her a glance as they clashed with a contingency bound for the capital structure. Brisingr flew into action, shining crimson with the tinge of iron it was quickly becoming familiar with.

As soldiers continued to pour from a single street, Eragon threw his head back towards the main street, his blue blade never pausing in its defense. "Go, Blodhgram! I'll deal with it here—head them off and keep them from prolonging this conflict!"

Blodhgram hesitated for the briefest of seconds, only to measure if Eragon had the forehand and advantage necessary for survival, and then nodded. The elves, joined by the majority of the remainder of their comrades during the run, followed the furry friend as he turned his back to the dragon rider and followed the path towards the governor. Their number wasn't twelve, but Eragon could sense the shielded consciousnesses of the rest throughout the western parts of the city with relative ease. They had not perished.

And neither had he. Yet.

Those swinging their swords to his parry were only human, but their numbers quickly began to overwhelm him, and he was briefly under the impression he had made a miscalculation. Every tip of a weapon came an inch closer to his flesh than the last had, and though his speed hadn't faltered and his instincts were matching every blow with a killing strike, he began to calculate a statistical retreat.

Arya blurred from nonexistence and swiped through the ranks that poured into him. Her own sword, light and cunning in the shadows of early morning, swept through bodies so quickly even his elven eyes had difficulty adjusting. She forced her way through the line of soldiers to where he stood, and they fought back-to-back in a circle as the streets began to bleed reinforcements.

Eragon spared a glance to the sky between blows and watched Saphira circle over the citadel. _Has Jörmunder gotten there yet? We're up to our teeth down here, and it's only now beginning to thin out. I could use you._

_He will be at the courtyard in moments. I'll come as soon as I can._

Arya elbowed him out of the way and slashed through a man as he raised a two-handed axe to slice through their skulls. He spun his sword around to cover her weak side and with one hack reduced three lively soldiers to lifeless corpses. To his partner-of-mind, he breathed, _Hurry._

_Jörmunder's converging on the governor's house and the citadel_, he sent to Arya, who allowed him past her mental defenses only after hesitating. _The battle is all but over already, except for these few still resisting._

_You should reunite with Saphira_, she replied. The numbers of the men were indeed thinning, and as Eragon stepped forward to engage five of the newest arrivals three dropped their swords and cowered behind their shields, quickly followed by the other two. He swung around to find those facing Arya exhibiting similar reactions, and the two of them locked eyes. _I think the situation here is under control._

He held her gaze for a moment longer, then nodded and sprinted away into the streets, replenishing himself once again from the supply of energy stored in the belt. Most of the soldiers he rushed past dropped their swords, but he wouldn't have attacked anyway. In the distance, he watched Saphira dive into the midst of the remaining soldiers, rolling past the few arrows sent towards her and roaring into the ranks. Before her talons were low enough to rip through the soldiers themselves, though, she abruptly pulled up and veered away.

Before he even had a chance to ask her why she had pulled up short, she spoke. _I believe they are already laying down their weapons to surrender. I'm sure that was sufficient enough._

Eragon smiled at her choice. _Good. Jörmunder can handle it from there. Come down and get me._

His dragon swung around high in the air above and dove towards her rider. He sprinted alongside her as she tucked low and slid low through the street, just slow enough so he could leap up and catch hold of one of the straps of the saddle. To the terror of the remaining soldiers bowing in surrender in the street, her forelegs brushed the stone of the road before she vaulted straight upward, carrying them both high into the sky and away from any possible danger. Eragon climbed into a firmer position and strapped himself back in, watching below as they circled once over the city.

A few places were billowing smoke, mostly on the east side towards Roran's regiment. Eragon searched the minds below for his cousin's consciousness and was relieved to find it after a moment of uncertainty. The elves were securing the citadel, and Arya had relinquished the duties of submission to Varden soldiers. Across the city, as the final soldiers surrendered and were steadily packed away into barrack buildings or sat down in street centers, Jörmunder's forces pressed into the capital building and secured the offices. Less than twenty minutes after the first breaches, Belatona was secured and locked down, through what Eragon would have pronounced as a perfect success.

_Well done, Bright-scales, _he said to Saphira affectionately.

_And yourself, little one_, she replied. Horns of victory—horns of the Varden—rang out as the sun finished its initial ascent and began to properly climb in the sky. They circled downward as the sense of urgency amongst the army quickly diminished, after the war cries of success. A number of the Varden's soldiers hadn't even had the time to rush into the city to assist, and were still venturing outside the city limits as the massive troop surge through the small two city gates spread out throughout the streets. Even as they struggled to orient themselves, elation seized the army, cries spreading wide and far, reaching into the air where the dragon and his rider flew. _You fought well. Not arrogantly. And your plan seems to have succeeded._

_Nasuada is about to enter the city,_ Eragon pointed out. As much as he enjoyed the victory, he didn't necessarily want Saphira and him flying over a battlefield to symbolize the Varden's might. Unwanted, unnecessary, and improper attention. _Come. Let's go down and greet her in her greatest victory yet._

Saphira obliged, an easier bank towards the city levels. Eragon slowed his breathing and heartbeat from their previous high levels and wiped sweat from his face as she pulled up inside of an clear alcove of space the Varden had left open for her to land in just inside of the city gates. She touched down to rabid cheers from the rebel army, and chants of "Shadeslayer!" gathered in the distance. Eragon forced a smile at the respect of the men, waving a hand slightly as if to ward off the cries.

Nasuada's small caravan of guards bustled into the city, and similar chants for the Varden's leader arose. She smiled and waved to the soldiers as they roared with their reverence of their two highest figures. She caught Eragon's eye and her smile widened. The procession pulled a left to head directly for him, and when she was within range to hear him even above the celebrations of the Varden, Eragon nodded from where he sat on Saphira's back, taking care to avoid her spikes.

"Congratulations on your victory, my Lady," he said.

"_Our_ victory," she corrected, beaming, and the words elicited a grand cry of elation and euphoria from the Varden. Eragon noted the fact that the bodies that had covered the gate area mere minutes ago had already been carted away, most likely to be sorted and given proper burial. "_Two _victories within three weeks! Galbatorix, after so long, finally has something in the world to fear!"

The crowd continued its roar of approval. Arya appeared, covered in a fair amount of blood Eragon was relatively certain wasn't hers, at the fringe of Nasuada's caravan. She avoided Eragon's gaze.

"Jörmunder has secured the capital building," he said to Nasuada. "I'm sure the governor will be most interested to speak with you, at once, my Lady."

"Of course, of course," Nasuada said, but her smile neither faltered nor diminished. Indeed, she looked livelier than Eragon had seen her in a decent while. "The winter has begun well, and it was due specifically to your plan. Well done, Eragon, well do—"

The piercing echo of a very loud horn pierced her words, striking them in half and stopping her in the middle of her syllable.

All of Belatona froze. The men stopped cheering. The entire army stopped _moving_. Voices died to whispers, and then to nothing, as the insane call of a blown instrument carried over the wind across the entire city. Arya turned towards Eragon, and Eragon felt uncertainty in Saphira and anxiety in himself. Nasuada swung her horse around swiftly to face the noise, as Saphira determined the direction herself. The Varden horns had ceased; the sound on the sky was not a cry of victory.

The note was of the Empire, and it was coming from the east.

"If you'll excuse me, my Lady," Eragon spoke, barely more than a whisper, and before Nasuada could even answer Saphira shot them both upwards, buffeting the Varden with the shockwaves of her wings' magnificent strokes. Faster than any other creature of the world could have risen, Saphira carried them above Belatona, far, far above so their eyes could stretch out east and discover the source of the cry that penetrated the Varden's victory. For a few moments, Eragon couldn't register what his eyes were telling him. As Saphira drew closer over Belatona's limits, however, it became abruptly clear what was transpiring a half-league to the east.

The bridges over the Jiet, bridges Eragon himself and the elves had broken barely a half an hour earlier had been remade. The wood that had been torn apart… the wood was still strewn across the Jiet, far downstream by now, long forgotten in the waters. Instead, the bridges were firm, sturdy, and reinforced, and instead of metal and lumber for their construct they had been erected from _solid stone_.

The Empire was staunchly marching over the two bridges, gapped evenly between them and full in force. Their ranks stretched behind them like a vicious cape or coattail, mocking those that traveled in their wake, and their movements were clean, composed, _synchronous._ The very sight of them was enough to strike fear in even Eragon's heart, and he was still digesting the situation.

As he felt the fear spread below them, in the streets of the Varden's victory, as the remaking of the bridges tried to rationalize itself in his perplexed mind and Saphira's apprehension pooled with his own, he somehow tilted his eyes away from the horror that was developing on the plains and searched the skies above the Empire's Army.

The red dragon roared from over the Jiet.


	12. 11: Wounds That Will Not Heal

**I have never been more tired after writing than I am at this moment.**

**Thanks to reviewers: Reader, ShadedWriterOfTheDarkness, Elvendiath, RestrainedFreedom, and The Pro.**

**Disclaimer: Talk to the pen.**

**11**

**Wounds That Will Not Heal**

_We cannot delay, _Saphira growled instantly, the moment they collectively beheld Thorn over the Empire.

Eragon was too busy staring at the _stone_ bridges the soldiers of his enemy were marching over, constructed, so it seemed, from quite strong bases in the waters of river itself, to immediately comprehend her words. They were pure white and both wider and thicker than the original bridges had been. Thorn roared overhead, and Eragon regarded the rider on his back with awe and anxiety. _He constructed that from his mind, Saphira! Do you know how much energy that would require? How powerful is he to create such things and still expect to have the enough stamina stored to battle? He must have exhausted his reserves!_

_He would not be so foolish, _Saphira replied, and they both felt dread creep into their minds. They were outmatched, in more than just physical and magical strength; Eragon was loosely clad in light armor so his mobility in the siege would be unhindered, and he wore no helm. Even as far away as they still were, they could tell Murtagh was sheathed inside a thick hauberk and legs of steel. His face was hidden behind a mask of some shape. Saphira, likewise, wore no armor, and while neither did Thorn this left her more vulnerable to strikes Murtagh could make that Eragon couldn't afford to retaliate against.

His mind reeling in fear, Eragon stabbed downward with his consciousness and invaded Nasuada's. With Saphira's assistance the Varden leader's walls were surpassed in seconds, and Eragon screamed urgently into her mind. _Get the men out of the city. Get them back onto the plains! Do it _now_!_

_What's going on? _Nasuada replied, relieved only the blue rider had entered her mind despite her retaliatory efforts.

_The Empire has made in over the river! Murtagh has reconstructed the bridges, and he is here! I don't have time to explain! You have to get the soldiers out of the city and onto the plains, quickly! Before they gain any more ground, they are less than a league away! Hurry!_

_What? _she replied, alarmed. _How could that be? Arya says you eradicated them completely, they were beyond being reconstructed._

_I don't have time to explain! _Eragon urged. _I don't know how, but the Empire is on this side of the Jiet and they will be at Belatona's gates in minutes. The army must get outside to defend the city! If they trap us inside, they may end up slaughtering us the same way as we just achieved victory in the first place! There is no time for argument, Nasuada. If we're trapped inside it could prove our end! At least from without we have an alley of retreat._

Nasuada paused for as long as they could afford before replying. _Very well_.

Eragon sighed in relief, but such content feelings were short-lived. He was relatively surprised Murtagh and Thorn weren't charging them midair yet. They were almost hovering, sitting above the troops. Across the distance, Eragon felt almost as if they were sizing each other up. _Of course_, he thought to himself. _That might be completely wrong. He might just be taunting me._

_We are not prepared for this_, Saphira growled.

_I doubt Murtagh will hold off a few days in order to make it fair_, Eragon stated. _We'll have to intercept them before they can cause trouble with the Varden soldiers. If I can somehow manage to get Murtagh on the ground, do you think you could take Thorn up here?_

_If I say no, will our plan change at all?_

Her excellent point only made his hopes drop and his fears rise. _In swordsmanship, I can match Murtagh's speed and strength. If his Eldunarí are present, I may be far outmatched by fatigue. If we flee, the two will destroy the Varden. We have to stand our ground._

Thorn roared, spilling great plumes of red fire into the sky. Saphira erupted, a wild labyrinth of flames rushing forth from her maw, encompassing a greater volume by far than the red dragon's had. Her resounding roar outstripped her counterpart's by a number of leagues. As their angry preamble escalated, Eragon glanced down to see if they would have to take drastic action in order to ensure the chances of the Varden. The forces were urgently spilling back out of Belatona's gate, trying hastily to form ranks. If they didn't quicken their pace, their lines would be shattered the moment the two forces clashed, and Eragon didn't have the options to assist them. He connected grimly with Saphira, and the two were prepared to begin their attack when a consciousness from the city touched his.

_Eragon._

He started, surprised. _What is it, Arya?_

_The spellcasters and I are rushing to the plains. If you can lure Murtagh and Thorn to the ground we will be able to assist you. In the air our magic would be too slow if we were directing from the ground. We can cut ahead and try to distract him in order for you to gain the upper hand._

_There's no time,_ Eragon replied, his eyes translating the disaster the morning had become. He estimated that the Varden had now less than two minutes until the two forces clashed, and the Empire's full complement had yet to cross the bridges. As he watched them, the ranks began to compact, drawing together in fine lines of fortification. They marched as one for battle as they grew ever closer to the Varden forces below. _The Varden will be outnumbered outside of the city walls. They need your help on the front lines, and I don't know if Murtagh will fall for a ruse._

_You must try_. The coldness her voice had betrayed for the past few days was absent, something Eragon hadn't been ignorant of. Concern replaced it, in no small array. _Pooling our minds, we can—_

_Arya, there _isn't time_, _Eragon interrupted. Thorn was veering, and Saphira was matching dangerously. They were separated now by a mere few thousand feet. Within moments, their aerial war would begin. _I have to face him now, or too many soldiers will die. The Varden cannot afford for me to wait._

_The losses will be endured for the best, if only you survive, Eragon_, Arya said, and he was so surprised he hesitated. _Above all, you cannot die here today. _

Thorn reared back, roaring once more. Eragon caught the glint of sunlight that reflected off of Zar'roc as Murtagh ripped the crimson blade from its sheath. _It's too late now. I won't fail. You said it yourself; this is what I wanted._

_You are not strong enough, Eragon, _she cried. Brisingr was in his hand, and Saphira rolled in midair to prepare for the red dragon's strike.

_Oh, well._ _Protect the Varden._

He sliced their connection in half, the same time as Thorn abruptly shifted upwards several hundred feet. Arrows streamed from both armies below, ripping into the opposite numbers. Battle cries sounded from both sides, as infantry spilled forth from rivers and cities to counteract the mutual attacks. Relinquishing the high air, Saphira banked towards the red dragon, closing their distance until their solid furies meshed as one between their consciousnesses.

Thorn dived; Saphira folded her wings and plummeted.

The equally-sized dragons fell together, two streaks of incredible light in the sunrise. Thorn shrank as far as he could within himself, doing anything he could to reach for Saphira. Saphira mirrored, falling quicker and more fluidly through the air. Eragon clamped his knees as tight as he could around her body as the battle below grew terrifying large before Saphira acted.

Flipping out her wings, she rolled and pulled out of the dive into a parallel path with the ground, racing over the clashing line of forces.

Eragon struggled to keep hold but managed it as Thorn roared in fury at the escaped prey. The less-agile dragon had more difficulty continuing the chase, but pulled up in time to avoid crashing fatally into the Empire's forces. He turned his head to watch as the two of his enemies fluttered precariously on the thinnest membrane of air, before Thorn regained his aerial balance and tore after them with renewed vigor.

Saphira twisted her body in midair and turned to face, clearly surprising their opponents. Rushing with speed only a dragon possessed, she shot towards Thorn's side, where she folded her wings to her body and used only her momentum to suspend her in air. The two dragons brushed within inches of each other. Eragon hacked at Thorn's flank; Murtagh deflected the blows. Sparks flashed between two insanely quick sword clashes before dissipating in the air.

Saphira unfurled her wings and caught the air to spin her around, and the two roared at each other in fury. Eragon braced as they rushed headlong into each other, grabbing a hold of the saddle and praying.

Blue and red slammed headlong into each other, low before the army. With massive cries of fury and agony, they gripped claws and talons and teeth into each other's bodies. Bloody gashes appeared on their underbellies, and Saphira swiped viciously at Thorn's face, striking a long gash across the younger dragon's jawbone.

Their wings suspended by their communion, the mass of the four dropped like a rock towards the armies. With ferocious thrusts, the two dragons ripped off of each other and spread their wings, catching themselves and their riders on the air before they crashed into the ground. Saphira's wounds were minimal, scratches only, and the pain was short and manageable; Thorn's were the same, however, and it was clear that in their strikes it would be difficult to gain the upper hand again.

_He is quick_, Saphira growled. _And though I am quicker, he is stockier. I cannot outmaneuver him when he can easily catch hold of me and tear me to bits._

_If you could break one of his legs it would ruin his ability to follow you._

_Perhaps not ruin, but slow down. _The two dragons took sweeping arcs, recovering from their spar as they prepared to ram again. _If I were to get that close, however, he would have the same advantage, and I would not last if I lost the ability to escape him by agility._

_I need to get close enough to dismount Murtagh._

_You will get your opportunity, then._

Saphira turned from her arc and rushed across the distance separating the two. Thorn roared and twisted just in time to absorb the force of the two massive bodies colliding. Thorn was thrown backwards; as a result, Murtagh was tipped upside-down. As Saphira jostled Thorn's body, scratching and tearing at his flesh as the red dragon tried to throw her off and right himself, the red rider somehow managed to retain his seat on the saddle. In the effort, though, his defense of Thorn's flank was distracted, and as Saphira turned Eragon ripped Brisingr through Thorn's side.

The red dragon howled in agony. He dug his claws into Saphira's belly and thrust her off, turning to right himself on the wind as Murtagh clambered to return to an equilibrium of balance. Thorn's eyes bulged with fury, and before Eragon had properly prepared himself Thorn turned and rushed them as they veered for room.

_Dodge him, Saphira!_ Eragon exclaimed, but before she had time to react the two dragons slammed into each other once again. Thorn's claws lashed into her side, inches from tearing through the saddle and Eragon. He attacked her tail and rear end with his teeth, and she kicked him in the jaw relentlessly. He tore at her a final time before she turned and berated him off with a swipe of her own talons. Eragon felt the pain her flank was causing her even as she muscled up to return the attack. Glancing towards the wound, he saw three long, deep gashes from her midsection to even with her hind legs.

_Are you all right?_ he asked, worry and concern mingling with fear.

_I will live,_ she replied. She lunged at Thorn, and their forelegs clashed for the briefest of moments before they broke off again. Eragon thought he heard Murtagh laugh maliciously, cruelly, from her counterpart's back. _At least, I will live for now._

She swung wide, leading him away from the army. Eragon had as of yet ignored the furious skirmish below, but a mere glance down told him they were at gridlock. The Varden had lost ground but their men were pouring like ants from the city, and many soldiers of the Empire were incapacitated. The battle of the ground was clearly a side effect to the true conflict; who controlled Belatona come the next sun would be determined in the skies.

To this effect, Eragon swept his eyes over the empty grounds of the plains as they shot away from the battle, Thorn hot on their tails. _If I can get Murtagh on the ground, do you think you could take Thorn alone up here?_

_He is strong, but I am quicker._ She flew faster. _It will be a challenging fight, but I will try._

_Then how can I dismount Murtagh?_

Saphira didn't answer, but she pulled her wings forward so they rose abruptly. Flipping them over, they soared to a higher elevation and gained advantage over Thorn as he could not stop his momentum enough to counter the maneuver. Murtagh raised his palm and screamed something inaudible over the wind. With the reflex of an elf, Eragon roared with a shielding spell and the resulting explosion of energy rocked both of the dragons off of their desired paths.

They were shot precariously close to each other, and Murtagh swung at Eragon's head. Eragon deflected it and tried to catch Murtagh on the back in one movement as Thorn shot past, but the red rider was too quick. He parried the blow easily and, with another well-placed slash, opened another gash in Saphira's side.

Blood spilled freely from the wound, raining red on the plains below. Saphira cried out and immediately lost lift, falling almost a hundred feet closer to the ground. Eragon twisted in the saddle and focused his mind on the cut. "Waíse heill!"

The tissue and scales sewed themselves back together before his eyes, and he replenished what he lost from the belt. He ducked around just to see a red arrowhead streak out of the sky directly for them.

Everything happened in a single moment. Saphira shot her wings out and feverishly stopped moving in midair. Thorn undershot by feet. Saphira dug her hind claws into his back and simultaneously tore at his flesh and ripped him away. Red scales twittered dismembered through the air, accompanied with massive lines of blood droplets. Saphira pulled herself out of her awkward position by thrusting her folded wings outward, catching the air and levitating herself once more into a cruise, after a frightening few moments in a suspended freefall. the action cost her the element of defense, however.

Through the pain, calling on his fury, Thorn reared back and sent a cacophony of red flames into their direction. In her imbalance, Saphira turned to shield Eragon from the blaze. Eragon felt the hot agony that erupted as her underbelly was singed, and the pain prevented her from retaliating as she tried to right herself in midair. As the flames dissipated but the pain remained, Murtagh, from Thorn's retreating back, raised his arm and sent a hot red streak towards them.

This time, Eragon's magic was too slow. His counteractive spell and Murtagh's barely glanced as the force hit Saphira hard in the flank, and the blue dragon and rider were thrown harshly into a downward spiral.

Apprehension seized Eragon, but he was too experienced to let it freeze him. Instead, he latched on tightly to the saddle, nearly dropping Brisingr, and screamed in his mind, _Saphira! Hold on!_

_I… can't… stop us…_

Her agonized wings tried desperately to catch the air and save them from their plummet, but the spells had done more damage than could be managed, and together the two crashed ever closer to the ground below them. Saphira had just managed to spread her body to slow their descent when her claws tore through the top of a hillside and threw both of them off-balance.

Her body was pulled to the dirt, but he was torn from the saddle and tumbled forward unhindered.

He crashed hard into a small dip between hills. He cried out sharply in pain as the contact split him at the shoulder. On impact, he was thrown off the ground again, and rolled before returning to the ground and entering an uncontrollable series of rolls and tumbles. Brisingr was torn from his hand, and his shoulder felt like it was exploding with every horribly jostling movement. Mercifully, he finally came to rest, gritting his teeth to stymie his cries.

Summoning the power from his belt, he murmured the dealing words over his shoulder, and felt the joint excruciatingly realign itself. He took a brief couple of gasps as he relaxed in the numb ache that remained, but could afford no time to dawdle. With rough and dirty hands, he pulled himself to his feet and rushed back to Saphira, who was lying on her side nearly a hundred feet earlier in his roll.

_Saphira!_ he cried, rushing to her side and gingerly touching her bleeding flank. _How bad is it? Where are you hurt?_

_I… I can't fly_, she replied. Her eyes were clenched in the pain, and Eragon leaped over her torso to get to the burned side. Her entire midsection was either black or had been burned through and oozing fluid. Large pieces of flesh were hanging dead off of where her body had been burned. Gashes and lacerations covered the majority of her rear half, and Eragon cringed as he beheld the gruesome, terrifying scene.

_Hold on, Saphira,_ he begged, summoning all energy he had in reserve, reaching towards that contained in Brisingr's pommel, as well. _Hold on just a little longer and I'll get rid of all the pain for you…_

_It will cost too much energy, Eragon, _she murmured, fighting the agony her body was experiencing. _All that you have in reserve. Without that, you will have nothing to fight Murtagh with. You cannot…_

_I have to, Saphira, I have to. _"Waíse heill!" The flamed skin rippled and began to form back together again. Black scales were polished as soot and crumbling remnants of fire shimmied off of their surface, revealing the remarkable blue color beneath them. The gashes in her side zipped back together, leaving no scars, and her underside looked as if it had never been hit with dragonfire or magic, much less the two combined. As she climbed staunchly to her feet and growled towards the sky, Eragon felt the last energies evaporate from within his belt.

_I told you_, Saphira chastised. _You have only what is left in Brisingr now. Glaedr is not with us, and there isn't enough life here…_

_I'll have to manage, _Eragon replied.

They whipped around to the ensuing roar. Thorn bolted out of the sky and collided fiercely, yet controllably, with the ground fifty yards away. The collision shot a mountain of rocks into the air, and as they fell back to the ground Thorn unleashed a call that made Eragon's ears scream for relief, that made soldiers of the Varden a league away collapse of strife. The force of the blast sent Eragon back a step, and only after the red dragon closed his maw did the blue rider regain his distraught senses.

Breathing heavily, fearing Saphira's recovery must as his own, he looked up just in time to see Murtagh leap down comfortably from Thorn's saddle. The red rider carefully healed his dragon's injuries with a single spell, taking energy from nothing and appearing no more exhausted for the effort. Eragon took brave steps forward, as Murtagh turned away from his spellwork and faced the younger of the two. With a perfectly unshaken hand, Murtagh reached up and pulled of his helm, flinging the device to the side as he beheld his opposite.

"Cäfka," Eragon murmured, his eyes never leaving his enemy. Brisingr sprung from the ground a number of feet away and planted itself firmly in his palm. Murtagh smiled deviously as he watched Eragon take a courageous few steps away from Saphira.

"Here you face me, Eragon," Murtagh said, spreading his arms wide. Zar'roc, the evil blade of his father, was outstretched in his right hand. "Just as I predicted, too. I never would have taken you for being the sort to sit behind petty walls while something as meager and weak as snow packed in your allies."

"Go back to the halls of the traitor where you came from," Eragon snarled.

"That wouldn't be desirable, brother. You of all people know what will happen if I return there again without your head, knowingly having faced you in battle and with such a clever and obvious advantage. No, I fear this will be our last meeting place. For the better or the worse."

Saphira growled behind Eragon. Without warning, a move only Eragon could have known, she threw herself off of the ground, careening quicker than elf or human could move towards their enemies. Murtagh dropped to a knee, and her outstretched claw passed harmlessly over him. She barreled into Thorn, however, and sent them both tumbling across the plains, their flawless bodies clashing anew. After a brief series of rolls, talons and limbs flailing, the two disentangled and launched themselves into the sky, spilling fire after one another and disappearing high in their fury.

_Be careful_, Saphira warned Eragon.

Eragon, from where he had been watching her unexpected attack, looked back to Murtagh. The gazes of the two half-brothers locked. _You, too._

The two riders raised their weapons toward each other, and began to circle each other. Their steps were poised and practiced, their armors uneven, their skills unmatched. The distance between them seemed to shrink as they began their inevitable circle inward, but Eragon conceded that his fear may have been conjuring things in his mind. Their minds were fortified, not even touching. It was as if had no hopes of breaking the other's will and mental walls. The terrified and horrible consciousnesses of the battle were so distant Eragon didn't have to struggle to block them out, and Saphira was distant enough to be isolated. Effectively, he was alone.

"I _have_ been looking forward to this," Murtagh said. "When we were both mortal, we could never best each other, and when I could it was never really a fair fight. But now… now we will find who is truly the stronger. Although I suppose that even when I was still mortal, you weren't."

"It's never been a fair fight between us, then," Eragon snarled. "You've always had the upper hand. Cowering behind concealed powers, dark notions. If you were half the warrior and half the man you claimed to be, you wouldn't spend you time slinking behind false control!"

Their distance closed abruptly. Murtagh lashed at Eragon's feet, and Eragon was forced into a parry before retaliating with a sharp strike at Murtagh's right hip. Sparks flew as all blows were deflected, showering against the ground. The two of them broke apart only long enough to swing back for fuller force, and crashed once more.

Eragon hacked at Murtagh's head, and when his attack was easily stopped he was forced in a quick criss-cross defense across his chest to avoid becoming speared so early in their defining battle. He ducked a blow and felt the tips of his hair get sawed off by Zar'roc's lethal cut. His sword caught on the other side of his body, he thrust out with his arm and knocked against Murtagh's jaw, throwing them both off-balance for a moment. Eragon rushed to slash his brother dead in their disorientation but was far too slow. Murtagh jumped out of range and leaped around him easily.

No human would have been able to keep pace as they flitted around each other, swords dancing, searching for an opening. Murtagh cackled loudly and exclaimed, "I have dreams sometimes like this, you know. Usually it either ends with me begging you to take my life or you being too slow to catch up with me."

He lunged again, and Eragon only barely managed to deflect a blow delivered at his right thigh. Murtagh immediately raked Zar'roc against Brisingr, trying to catch Eragon unawares and rip the blue blade by the guard. Eragon thrust upward, with his hands, stopping Murtagh's movement dead. Groaning with effort, he thrust the strike to the side, and aimed a slash across Murtagh's chest. The blow was dodged by leaning back, and Eragon abruptly tucked himself into a hearty roll to avoid the counterattack.

He didn't even have time to climb to his feet again as Murtagh rushed after him. The red rider hacked at the ground, clashing with Brisingr as Eragon rolled sporadically, staying unpredictable. Murtagh, in frustration, tried to kick Eragon while their blades were locked. Eragon caught his foot mid blow and yanked Murtagh's feet from below him. They toppled into the dust together. Murtagh lost his grip on Zar'roc and Eragon watched it clatter away. They scurried for control, each trying to force Brisingr on the other. They broke apart, and Eragon rolled away, losing the advantage. He rushed to his feet as Murtagh retrieved the fallen blade and they both stood wary, breathing heavily.

"As it turns out," Murtagh said, "neither of those seems to be happening right now."

"I like the idea of you begging for your life on your knees pretty good. Maybe we should give that one a try?"

Murtagh laughed. "Should I beg forgiveness for all of my wrongdoings while I'm at it?"

"That'd be good start. I only have so long and you've got so many sins on your plate, you better start soon. I'm going to come hacking whether you finish repenting or not." Eragon twirled his sword once and rushed.

Their movements became flurries. They danced and twitched, and the two unbreakable blades screamed as their metals warped into one on the plains. Eragon forced Murtagh into a backtrack, but his tactic turned to his disadvantage when Murtagh hastily began to climb a hill in reverse. They rushed around each other, climbing high on the ridge while fighting for the high ground. Murtagh unexpectedly dropped out of the way of a try at beheading, and swung Zar'roc towards Eragon's legs.

Eragon buckled, barely managing to escape the blow, but Murtagh rushed high as a result of the distraction and took the crest of the hill as his own. Hissing in frustration, Eragon flung himself up after and assaulted again before the red rider could situate himself to a tactical advantage.

From their height atop the high hill, they could see the battlefield. It had escalated and spilled into the surrounding plains. The numbers were clashing through the ways, and the field was already littered with bodies. As the two riders' dueled as only the best of the skill could, Eragon glanced towards the battlefield. He wondered if Arya was succeeding. _I hope she's safe._

The thought was a moment of his undoing. Catching him distracted and less concentrated, Murtagh blasted Brisingr from his hands with an unbelievably powerful slash, and all of a sudden Eragon was weaponless. Murtagh, never hesitating, whipped his blade around and slashed for the kill.

Eragon dived after Brisingr on the hilltop, avoiding the tip of Zar'roc by less than an inch. He fumbled for the briefest of moments as he caught hold of the blue hilt, and then spun it back around until it clashed heavily in defense with the falling strike of his enemy. Fury bellowed from behind Murtagh's eyes, and the two engaged briefly in a battle of pure strength.

They broke apart panting apiece, but even as they moved Murtagh placed a hand to his belt and instantly straightened. As Eragon stepped back, still feeling the hardships of their battle, Murtagh laughed yet again. "Perhaps you're right, brother. Perhaps this isn't a fair battle. But that's why you were always wrong about me. There's so much power in me, Galbatorix could never afford to have me die. So he made it impossible."

Eragon could feel the sweat drenching his undershirt and trousers. Small rivers ran down his face and hands. His breath came in ragged pants and he was finding it difficult to stay completely upright. The bruises he had sustained during the fall were causing him a great deal of grief, and he had to force his eyes to remain on Murtagh, ready for anything. The only consolation to the situation was that Saphira was fighting strong leagues above in the clouds. The situation on ground was far bleaker.

Nevertheless, at the words spoken, Eragon charged.

Murtagh deflected his initial blow easily, the next two just the same. Eragon relentlessly threw every combination and unconventional ploy of the sword at his enemy as he could, but the red rider deflected everything as if there were no effort at all. As Eragon slashed towards his head, Murtagh finally retaliated, striking a blow so hard it jarred Brisingr to the hilt and nearly made Eragon drop the sword. Reeling, trying to stay within himself, Eragon barely managed to deflect a killing blow before Murtagh shied away again.

He growled in fury. He was being played with.

"Stand!" he roared. "Don't pull back like a coward! Stand against me!"

"Your anger betrays you," Murtagh spat, dancing out of Eragon's reach, light on his feet while Eragon tried to recover some strength. "Fury won't help you any in this battle, brother." His smile turned rudely twisted. "_Love_ means nothing here. Your pretty elf or your beloved master can't help you here. They're all proud, brave warriors, but right here, right now, it is only you, and me."

Eragon screamed in fury. Murtagh _dared_ to speak of Oromis. "Do not speak of him!" he cried out, lashing out. For the briefest of moments, as Murtagh reacted swiftly to block Eragon's strikes, he actually looked fearful. "Do not say his name when you relinquished your mind to evil slaughtered him in _cold blood_!"

Murtagh reeled and struck Eragon away again, rushing towards him without respite. Their words clashed in fury as they dueled, each more angry than the other. "It was not my choice to vanquish him! I regret the deaths of the old ones as much as any other rider would! Do you not think I respected him?"

"You felt _nothing_ for him!"

Eragon swung—he swung so hard the Brisingr ignited beneath his hands, free of words and magic and all except for his fury. The two swords clashed toward, but their collision resulted in explosion. Murtagh was thrust away from the strike, and their blades both shone bright in light of the unknown happening. Before either of them realized what had happened, the event was over.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, as Eragon stood stock still in place, Murtagh stood straight and faced his opposite. A dozen irregular burns covered the right side of his face, and nothing but cold fury displayed itself across his features.

Like a beast of the fiercest night, Murtagh bore his teeth towards Eragon, and said, "Perhaps you're right, then. Maybe I am just _evil_."

Murtagh blitzed, and Eragon broke himself from his shock just in time to parry. Murtagh was already moving again, swinging at his hip, his shoulder—his leg, stabbing his stomach, arcing to slice his head from atop his torso. Miniscule distances Eragon couldn't even measure prevented him from losing his life, and while every strike came closer Murtagh only seemed to grow angrier and angrier, backing Eragon across the hill, so quickly their bodies were nearly pressed together despite their blurred blades.

Murtagh slashed to the left, the right, cleaved towards Eragon's head, relentlessly and unpredictably striking. Within moments, Eragon was fighting only from his knowledge of Murtagh's tendencies and instinct—all skill had abandoned him. He was fighting only on the defense. If he risked taking a slash of his own, he would be dismembered before he could complete the action.

Fear grew inside of him, clawing at his resolve and replacing his fury abruptly with uncertainty and growing fear. His mind and body could no longer fight for him, not alone. _Saphira! I need yo—_

The effort needed to speak distracted him too much from his duel, and his strength shifted. With a bludgeoning strike Eragon hadn't been prepared for, Murtagh struck Brisingr away from the defense, jarring Eragon's hands once again as he cried out and dropped his blade. Murtagh didn't hesitate with the advantage, swinging around, he drop the flat side of Zar'roc hard in Eragon's temple.

Eragon's world exploded in a million white lights, quickly reforming as throbs of agony persisted in his mind. He crumbled to his knees, his head fractured in two by the pain yet solid in reality. His thoughts rested in coherently for the briefest of moments, but the briefest of moments was all it took for all of his defensive abilities to drop.

Murtagh reeled around, and from behind Eragon's back, Zar'roc flew downward in an inevitable clash with destiny.

Eragon's back exploded. That was the only way he could describe it to himself. White, hot pain enveloped him, as he loosed a scream he had never before elicited, screaming to the skies and the gods and all that remained. His body came back to him; his mind resituated itself. His back was on fire, stemming from the tips of his right shoulder to the fringe of his left hip. As the blood poured freely from the open wound, memories rushed back to Eragon's head…

…_crippled on the floor of Farthen Dûr… the hideous laughter of Durza… the feeling of evil as the blade sliced his back open like bread… seizures gripping hold of him in the night, jarring him awake from pleasant dreams and transforming his waking hours into nightmares…_

His screams had subsided, and he stared straight forward in shock. A pair of red-clad legs appeared to his right and paced to his left as Murtagh circled him. He remained on his knees, his mind trying desperately to understand what was happening. His world was crumbling… he couldn't move…

"That was for you, brother," Murtagh snarled. "To return what was unrightfully taken from you by the thrice damned elves…"

His brother disappeared from his vision again, and Eragon understood what had transpired. He was going to die. He had been too slow. He had failed all those that put trust in him. He reached towards the sky with his thoughts, and found Saphira banging into a barrier Murtagh had thrown up around them, shielding their connection. _Saphira,_ he thought, in so much pain. _Saphira, I'm so sorry…_

A cry of agony shattered his thoughts. It took him several long moments to realize it was his own screams, and another long few to realize why—a second gash had been rent in his dying back, clobbered from his left shoulder now, spilling towards his right hip.

_...helplessness... agony... unable to escape from the plaguing thoughts that were all he knew in the pain... the Shade's face invading his sleep even when he knew the demon was no more..._

"And that… that was for _me_." Murtagh walked into his vision again, as Eragon begged the pain to stop. Anything, anything to make the pain stop. "For what _you_ have unrightfully shown to me of freedom. A taste of pleasure I shall never have. And now you have the best of both of us, brother. You have both of our marks on your back."

Murtagh's words meant little to him, so far as he was lost in his back. In the distance, he could feel Saphira careening at him at terminal velocity, hindered by Thorn, who crashed into her flank to delay her. His raw pain again dulled into nothingness, leaving him only confused and braindead. In the distance, he saw the Varden fighting… fighting…

Fighting. He was a fighter.

Eragon saw a sword lying a few feet away. Brisingr. He understood. He needed to fight. He needed to get up.

Murtagh had paced away, leaving the blue rider behind as he strutted out towards the battle where he could watch the two mighty forces clash unhindered by his own skirmish. Fighting with his deepest resolve, Eragon willed his fingers to move, then his toes, then his feet. He screamed with the effort, causing Murtagh to turn, but he managed to climb once more to his feet. As he did so, he felt blood trickle down into his trousers and down the base of his legs. The armor he had been wearing had been cleaved apart and hung lifelessly over his torso.

Every move a horrible death in agony, Eragon stumbled over and picked up Brisingr. He barely had strength enough to lift it up, but he held it and brandished it towards Murtagh. "Fight… me," he groaned. Every word took an eternity to pass his lips.

Murtagh's eyes widened slightly. Then he turned cold once more. He disappeared in a blur and all of a sudden Eragon found himself lying on his back, his breath escaping him as screamed his agony at the world once more. As he cried out in pain, a humorless laugh, almost pained, emanated from somewhere foreign to his own body.

He rolled in his own pain, losing everything else to the raw excruciation. The owner of the laugh spoke. "The world where you are powerful is over, Eragon. Galbatorix is the only one now. He controls everything, even the very forces of the world. Look, now, as even from fifty leagues away he destroys the Varden. Can't you see?"

There was a moment of silence, and then Eragon was suddenly seized by the hair by a fierce hand. Too far gone to even cry out in pain, he felt himself wrenched upward, his eyes falling open of their own accord.

The battle raged in the distance. They were little dots, and he couldn't tell which side was which, or who was fighting for whom. He could barely even tell which bodies were alive or laid dead as corpses. It was so distant, the sounds of the steel of their blades and the impacts of their shields didn't even reach his ear… but he could _see_. Somehow, in his broken state, he could see. He saw every man, every Urgal, every soldier of the Empire as they fought. He could classify each one of them and tell who they were. And he could see the tall figure, wielding a sword stained with blood, facing the direction where he was being tortured to death on the hill.

He knew who the tall figure was. And he knew that she could see him as clearly as he could see her.

"Look, Eragon. Look as your future crumbles."

The hold on his hair was released, and Eragon collapsed again to his knees. He didn't even hear Murtagh's words. His eyes, his mind, his entire life was a league away, on a battlefield he couldn't hear, could barely see. He could feel every emotion roiling around in her mind, in Arya's mind, everything she thought as she cried out at finding him amongst the hills. He could feel the rush as the breath left her body, the terror that filled its place instead.

He couldn't stay down—Arya was watching. He couldn't die when Arya was watching. He refused to.

Screaming louder than any dragon of the world had ever roared, Eragon climbed to his feet, forsaking his sword for the plain effort it took to stand. He turned towards Murtagh, who again looked to Eragon, dumbfounded. He couldn't tell if it was his hands that shook so hard as he raised them or his body, but either way it was an incredible feat that just his mind still had the capacity to operate.

Murtagh cocked his head to the side. The look of perplexity was second to no other. "Why, Eragon? Why? Why get up? Why fight me? Just die, like you're supposed to."

"No," Eragon said. He could barely detect that he'd spoken, but the word hung on the air.

Murtagh lashed at him with a fist. He collapsed. Without thought, he clambered his way back to his feet. Again, the red rider struck him down, but he was on the ground for a mere few seconds before he climbed back up again. The pain was gone now, replaced only by determination he hadn't known he'd possessed. It wasn't even about fighting, anymore—he just couldn't stay down. Nothing else mattered.

Murtagh backed away from him, looking almost fearful in his body language. They stared into each other's eyes for a long moment, one gaze terrified and the other completely blank, and them abruptly Murtagh's head turned skyward and he leaped away quickly. Eragon had no energy left to act, only enough to follow his enemy's glance as a fierce streak of blue light plummeted out of the sky.

Saphira crashed into the ground at his side, the same time as Thorn quaked the earth near Murtagh. Neither dragon hesitated, short of making sure their riders were beyond their line of fire. Eragon was barely coherent enough to watch as two maws opened wide, roars that could split mountains emanating from the throats of magnificent creatures.

The world erupted as blue flame met red.

To Eragon, the world was dancing in colors. He watched the blue light clash with the red, comingling and interacting with it. The two were not friendly, but neither could gain an advantage over the other. They swirled around and around and pushed back and forth, but they were stuck forever in the middle. It was clear to Eragon there would be no victor between the colors. And so he was unsurprised when they ceased moments later.

The colors disappeared, and reality crashed back immediately. Sweat licked his face, from the heat the dragons' firefight had created. Saphira gripped him with her foreclaws to prevent him from falling over. She was bleeding and so was Thorn, but most of the pain that emanated from their connection was his alone, although he could no longer feel it.

For what felt like millennia, Eragon stood as Saphira clutched him, desperate to protect him against all evils. Murtagh stood next to Thorn, unaided in his own ability to stand. Murtagh's face hadn't changed, wonder and disbelief the only visible features. An eternity passed and still the two dragons and riders sat there, staring across fifty yards, facing off one another. A sleep of forever beckoned to Eragon, and though he felt exhausted he did not feel it was right to go.

He was barely lucid enough to watch Murtagh slowly climb onto Thorn's back. He stared into his brother's eyes one last time, and then abruptly they were gone. His eyes registered them soaring into the sky, the marvelous blue sky… until they became a red blob, then a spot… then a dot, and then a speck… and then, into the ending sunrise, they were gone.

His mind imploded. Pain enveloped him.

Eragon looked up into Saphira's eyes, where he saw immeasurable agony. In his mind, or perhaps it was his ears, he heard a dozen screams from a dozen different consciousnesses.

Then he surrendered to the sleep.


	13. 12: Du Shur'tugal

**I thank all of you for reviewing. It really means a lot to me… However, for those of you who thought I was demonizing Arya for the sake of leading her friendship with Eragon downhill… :P This is the part of the program where I dash those hopes into oblivion. My sincerest apologies, and I hope you find this better than I seem to believe I've written it.**

**Thanks to reviewers: Tsukune08, Marshall88, RestrainedFreedom, Sorrows Equinox, Nocturnel, Elvendiath, warrior of worlds, Eragontheone, Alyra90, The Meepsta, ElvenFriend2.0, Wolfyman123 and Reader.**

**Disclaimer: Indeed not.**

**12**

**Du Shur'tugal**

Arya was slicing her blade through the remnants of a human body when she had felt the first wave of horrifying emotion. It nearly crippled her to her knees, where she went anyway to duck another soldier's sword swing, and threatened to expunge any other thought from her mind as she quickly killed her attacker with magic.

A mixture of pain and horror slammed into her mental defenses from within her own interior, battering against years of fortified structures and throwing them aside as if they were mere insects trying to protect a capital city. Only through an extreme effort did she manage not to gasp as she gripped her feelings back in hand. Beyond her control, a power that was herself yet not herself had gained the high ground and was beating her down, sucking her breath away and knocking away all the walls she had built, reducing her to something less than elf. To the emotional complexion of a _human_.

Yet before she could have time to become terrified of what seized her, it disappeared the same way as it had come.

Cold sweat broke over her brow, uncontrolled. She straightened, resisting the trembling she felt raking her body apart. A sword swung at her from nowhere, and her reflexes barely managed to save her in time. She mindlessly incapacitated its owner, but the onslaught of otherworldly feelings had shaken her from her core of composure. She struggled to remain upright; one of her spellcaster companions saved her from a pikeman she should have easily disposed of.

Such feelings had taken her only once before, such a phenomenon as this… the one time where she had lost that which was dearest to her… She started as she recognized the terrible grip of the premonition that held her in its vice, subsiding but leaving an awful scar where it had taken root. Something beyond magic, beyond thought, beyond reality had wrapped a fist around her mind and squeezed mercilessly for precious seconds, squishing the life as if to show her the pain she could anticipate…

Faolin…

…was gone.

She clumsily hacked through another set of soldiers, her speed reduced to a thin ghost of what it normally was. Again, elves rushed to her aid as her defenses crumbled, forcing the humans back and gaining ground even as she tried to regain cold control over her usually sound functions.

_Are you unwell, Dröttningu?_ Blodhgram beseeched her through their prolonged tactical connection, slaying Empire soldiers to his fore and rear with no apparent concern for his own life. Knowing well that all of the elves could hear her reply and that every word would in some way or form be relayed to her mother, Arya had to force thought for several moments just to answer.

_I have momentarily become dizzy_, she replied, the safest answer he could come up with. With no small effort, she forced her hands and arms to stop shaking, holding her arms straight as she rushed into the human horde with familiarity. _It will pass. I am well._

But she was not.

Blodhgram acknowledged his consent, yet even as they rushed forward Arya felt fear stab into her heart like a Shade's dagger. Men became wraiths before her eyes as she tried to untangle her slowly calming emotions. Within moments, the shaking subsided and she was whole again, but the remnants of horror's grip stayed with her as she forced her way deeper into the Empire's army. For all of their strength, the elves could only hold the Empire off until the Varden could properly assemble itself outside of the city gates and attack with full force. Between the numbers still crossing the bridges at the distant fore and her trembling mind and the possibility of Murtagh and Eragon jumping back into the fight, Arya expressed the slightest hint of worry that their ground could be overrun. And if Eragon couldn't defeat Murtagh, all hope of victory was lost completely.

_Eragon._

Halfway through pulling her sword from the dead chest of an enemy, her thoughts froze her body in mid-action. Her eyes trailed lifelessly across the battlefield, watching as Urgals and men tore into each other, as the Varden assembled, as the Empire charged, as her compatriots tore into the lines of Galbatorix with a century of fury. Everywhere she looked, everywhere she sought comfort, she neither saw nor heard any sign of the blue dragon. Or its rider.

_Blodhgram! _she cried out, masking the wild feelings that whipped inside of her. _Where is Murtagh?_

_I have not set eyes on he since we observed Eragon-elda led them to the hills_. Blodhgram replied. _The red dragon and Bjartskular flew into the sky, and are above the clouds, as I have seen it._

The elves pushed the Empire back, startling them into tumbling amongst their own ranks, easily falling victim to the blades of the Fair Folk. Arya, however, raised her own blade and stared off into the hills, left behind by her comrades as they tore through their hated enemy without mercy or hesitation. They had resigned her to her moment of respite, knowing not what ailed her, but it wasn't by dizziness that she halted and diverted her attention, and she was fairly certain they were unaware of this.

With slight surprise that her endeavor was successful, she found what she searched for in two dueling figures on a hill at least a league away, clashing with astounding ferocity and speed. They were almost one person, their fighting styles and fury and form so familiar and similar that Arya couldn't tell them apart, but their statures and agility betrayed them as separate beings. Separate wonders of their species.

Yet something else separated them.

The upper hand was clearly held by one of them, and Arya could see the climax of the duel culminating moments before it actually did, across the miles, over the corpses, across the plains. She watched them swipe after each other, until a massive swing from one of them caught the other in the side of the head. Her breath caught heavily in her throat as the dazed one fell to his knees, and was only helpless to watch as the victor of the contest swung around behind the fallen and struck his sword down the loser's back.

She only barely stopped herself short of screaming, and that was when she knew for sure that the one on the ground was Eragon.

A force which she had never known seized her mind from within her own instinct, and she thrust outward with her consciousness, reaching across the plains towards the blue rider. _Eragon!_ she screamed. _Eragon! Answer me, Eragon!_

There was no answer. She stretched to her limits, begging for his consciousness to touch hers as he had so tentatively done so many times before. But as she watched in the distance as Murtagh rounded him on the ground, where he sat crumpled in agony and sorrow, she didn't know if he even possessed the capacity to understand her connection.

She did gasp as she finally touched a stray tendril of his mind, simultaneously as Murtagh swung at Eragon's back for a second time. The raw agony that exploded within the connection, within the very fabric that made her mind what it was, Eragon's mind what it was, and the emaciated link that so fragilely hung between them. She felt Eragon's screams, trying to absorb them for him but knowing he could not feel her presence. All anger and ignorance and distrust were lost in the pain of the rider, and she begged for him to hear her. _Eragon…_

The elves had moved on; she had been long forgotten by the Empire, subdued as it was by the terrible onslaught the quick creatures tore into their ranks. For all she was aware of, however, they could have been tearing her apart bone by bone. Her mind was completely enwrapped within the physical terror and suffering being thrown out amongst the plains. She had never felt anything quite like it, even from the ordeals of her own torture. This was something completely different, pain ripping through the mind even more so than the body; the soul the medium which was being fractured at a blistering pace.

In the deepest confines of the consciousness, however—as it held her rooted to the spot where she stood, lost in the connection and unable to move—something new sprouted to existence. Something she could not classify. Whatever it was, she presumed it was the reason why Eragon abruptly forced his way to one knee, and then shakily climbed to his feet.

Murtagh whipped around and Eragon was down again. Fresh pain rippled through his mind and Arya took the blunt of it hard to her core. She was only beginning to recover from the reel of mental strain when she watched Murtagh haul the rider up again by his hair.

Her breath caught. She sensed his snag, as well.

_Eragon._

There was no answer, but she saw him. He saw her. Murtagh released him, but his gaze held true. Their eyes couldn't have known what their minds did together, even with no definitive measure, and Arya pleaded with him to respond… anything. She tried to move, but her limbs would not unlock themselves. The elves were frantically trying to enter her mind, but her impromptu connection had thrown barriers even she couldn't break around her own consciousness.

She felt a sense of resolve in their vibrant contiguousness. Eragon launched himself to his feet again.

Murtagh struck him; he fell and slowly climbed back to his feet. Again and again they clashed, but whatever Murtagh did it wasn't enough to keep the blue rider on the ground. Time after time he rose to face the King's slave once more, and eventually Murtagh backed away uncertainly. All Arya could feel was the horrible, horrible feelings transpiring inside of Eragon's mind, and was finding it difficult to conceive that he had actually managed to continue to stand up against the evil of the red.

A dart of color above finally tore Arya's eyes from the combating brothers. Saphira shot out of the clouds and slammed into the turf around Eragon. Thorn mirrored her actions, shielding Murtagh. From the depths of their bellies, giant roars seized the plains, their forces so great that miniature shockwaves followed them across the land. Arya unconsciously leaned into the blast so as not to lose her footing. Many soldiers were thrown off their feet, an advantage the elves did not waste. Even more of the humans brought their hands, screaming, to their ears, trying to blot out the terrific hollers of the ancient creatures.

The fire began next. From each dragon came a giant plume of flame. Red met blue between the two riders, each force slamming into the other and running very quickly into a barrier that couldn't be crossed. The fires dueled for dominance, pushing back and forth with all of the power the dragons could muster together. There was no room for gain, however; it was quite clear that neither would be bested by the other.

At precisely the same moment, the dragons cut off their attack.

Minutes passed. The elves fought on, but the Varden stood in shock. A number of the Empire's forces had halted as well, and a great deal of heads were turned towards the plains, where the dragons, if not the rides themselves, were clearly visible to the humans. Arya held her breath, terrible pain still radiating through her body as Saphira joined the weak link that still passed between her mind and Eragon's. She wasn't even sure if he noticed. In those moments, she felt as if she aged a second lifetime, another century of living, caught as she was in her rooted terror. She tried in vain to break free of the startling phenomenon that held her hostage in its emotional grip. She thrashed inwardly and screamed to break free, but her efforts resulted in no victory whatsoever. She was a helpless bystander to the world-changing events transpiring a league away.

She watched, unable to move, as Murtagh climbed onto Thorn's back, as Saphira didn't move in the slightest. The two dragons regarded each other with wretched silence for a further moment, and then the red dragon threw himself and his rider into the sky, sailing away from their blue counterparts.

Fear seized Arya. Murtagh veered for the Empire's army, and she tried to emit a cry of warning for her fellows. It was for nothing, as the barriers held strong, but they too had been watching and swiveled abruptly to face the two as they entered the battle again from their private skirmish. As she finally felt the powerful mental force holding her body in place start to slip away, she readied herself to charge Murtagh with all the skill she had culminated of a century's work and kill the bastard.

But Thorn did not attack.

Instead, the two sailed high over the suspended fighting, to the perplexed and horrified cries of the Empire's troops, and continued unhindered to the northeast. Despite Arya's suspicions of treachery and disbelief, the minutes passed as they sailed farther and farther away, the glints of the rising sun passing off Thorn's scales until he and Murtagh were reduced to a faint dot in the distance, and finally disappeared altogether.

The elves crashed into her mind, their confusion melding with her own as the thirteen of them frantically tried to confer on the terribly unforeseen turn of events. Arya only realized she had the ability to move again when the Varden screamed with renewed vigor and charged unto the horrified and disadvantaged Empire.

Without delay or pause for thought, she turned and sprinted into the hills, away from the corpses, through the fighters, off towards where Eragon lay broken in Saphira's claws.

_Saphira!_ she screamed as she ran. The connection that had strung her and Eragon together unbreakably had dissipated to their normal link, but the pain still emanating was clear. _Eragon! Saphira!_

_He will not answer me!_ Saphira cried, terrified. She was nudging her rider's mind, but there was absolutely no reaction to him. _He's losing consciousness, and he's already lost a lot of blood. I was not able to defend him in time._

_Eragon! _Arya called, sprinting as she had never run before. She didn't know why she held hopes Eragon would answer her when he could not even reach his partner-of-mind, but she tried anyway. _Saphira, how badly is he injured?_

Saphira roared in the depreciating distance. _Murtagh has redrawn Durza's blade in his back, and added another. I fear he may have a concussion. I cannot keep him awake, he is losing consciousness too fast!_

_Prod his mind! _Arya cried. _Induce pain! He must not fall to sleep. He may never awake, and if his injuries are grave enough it will be almost certain to be fatal!_

_I cannot injure him further with pain_, Saphira groaned. It was not a statement of sympathy—it was made with necessity. The blue dragon could not bear to injure her rider any further than he was. Arya could understand her reasoning; they both feared Eragon could last no farther than he had already gone. _You must do it. I cannot._

Arya tried. She tried to force jolts of discomfort past Eragon's haziness. She met resistance, which startled her. She pushed harder, but found it utterly impossible to finish the induction she so desperately tried to make. _What is wrong with me?_ she beseeched herself. _Where has my power gone? Why can I not complete this tasks?_

The answer was slow in coming, so slow that Arya rushed up to the blue pair just as her mind wrapped around it—she, too, like the dragoness before her, could not bear to force Eragon further into the realm of agony. The resistance she met was not an outward force pressing and oppressing her powers. It came instead from within her very own soul and consciousness, refusing to create more pain, even in the hopes of sustaining his wakefulness for the good of his own life.

_You must! _she screamed at herself, trying frantically to find some resolve to call upon in order to enact what she knew she had to. _You have to. He cannot die. He is everything to the Varden. He is our last hope. If he dies, all of us die. I cannot allow this!_

Despite herself, the harder she tried, the greater her subconscious fought back, restricting her from doing what needed to be done. And, as she rushed up to the two, leaping over Saphira's backlegs and rushing towards her fore, as Saphira roared in misery through the link the three of them shared, Arya watched as Eragon's eyes rolled upwards, disappearing into his head. With the silence of time, his eyes slid shut and he slumped as far as he could go in Saphira's grip.

"Eragon!" she cried, clutching his face with both hands. She would have slapped him if she could have, but even if she would allow herself to she would not have for fear of worsening his head injury. "Vakna!"

He didn't stir, and Saphira screamed, ricocheting raw terror and fear throughout both of their skulls. Arya rushed to receive him and lower him to the ground as the blue dragon began to tremble, fighting back whatever battle their intimate connections were throwing her. Saphira released her rider, terrified, and Arya eased him slowly until he rested in the soft grass. He felt along his side, looking for broken bones. She felt fractured ribs with the tendrils of her magic and healed them quickly, but his condition didn't improve.

Flipping him over as gingerly as she could, she cried out audibly in dismay as she regarded the twin scars arcing across his back. Zar'roc had sliced clean through his armor, raking deep gashes dreadfully similar to the wound Durza had dealt him criss-crossing from shoulder to hip. Blood seeped from the wounds; his legs and lower spine were already stained red, seemingly a permanent change.

"Waíse heill!" she cried out, calling on her most powerful controls. She watched as the skin rippled and tried to stitch together, but the connection was superficial. The lines skimmed to a harsh fault, and blood trickled out from between the cracks constantly. The horrible magicks of Zar'roc's blade had affected the tissue beyond what simple magic could heal. Beyond what Arya had the capacity to fix.

Arya thrust into his mind and found the pressure which had forced him down, borne of the blast to the head he had suffered to catch him off-guard. It was serious, and his condition was declining. He didn't have the time to spare. Every moment that passed crossed him closer to death's door. The Varden's demise. Her horrible defeat.

_I cannot heal him,_ she informed Saphira. _Dark magic has inflicted that which cannot be fixed by conventional magic. It is beyond my capacity…_

_We must do _something_, Arya. We _must_. I cannot allow him to die. We cannot. _Saphira leaned over and licked Eragon's face. Giant tears spilt from her eyes into the dirt. _What is there to be done? Tell me what can be done._

Thoughts, ideas flashed before Arya's mind. She became aware of four other elves rushing up to the scene, all regarding it with equal horror to what she herself withstood. She ignored them completely. _Angela is the only one within reach I have seen heal something of this magnitude. She is the only one that can save him in time._

_She remained in Feinster! _Saphira replied. _There isn't time for such a journey!_

_It would take a fraction of the time of the march for you, Saphira._

_He hasn't the time for that! _the blue dragon protested, protectively surrounding Eragon in the dirt. Arya held her ground, equally terrified of their time constraints. _We could lose him at any moment. We need someone now!_

_Angela is the _only hope_, Saphira,_ Arya replied. _We do not have time nor options. We have to try, or he _will _die. If we do nothing, he most certainly will. It is the only chance we have—it is the only option the Varden has. He cannot die, Saphira. Please._

The two females, elf and dragon, two different creatures that meant two very completely different things to Eragon, locked eyes with one another. Saphira's were pained and pressured, while Arya's were pleading and desperate. Both clung to Eragon as if her were their mutual lifeline to the world. In a sense, he was. An entire nation's confidence and hope rested dying on the ground, and they were running out of their seconds to waste. Arya begged in their connection, something she would never have reduced to in any other context, something she would have been horrified to be doing in any other context. _Please, Saphira._

Utterly agonized silence passed between them for too long. Finally, Saphira blinked once and shuddered with resolve. _Very well. You must latch him to the saddle. And I must fly quicker than I have ever flown._

"Help me!" Arya cried to her companions, and together with the elves she carefully hoisted Eragon in the saddle. With speed only elves could comfortably perform, the rider's legs were tied to the saddle and Arya carefully wound a rope interlocked with another loop of the saddle around his waist and over his shoulders, securing him as comfortably as he could possibly ride, avoiding any contact with his back.

They stepped back immediately, leaving no delay for Saphira. She was shaking, but Arya imbued what strength the elven princess had left into the dragon for the journey, leaving nothing back as she hoped for the best. Saphira turned a large eye on Arya, and spoke with caution and a further measure of terror. _Arya Svit-kona, Murtagh left without warning. He had no reason to depart without crushing the Varden when Eragon couldn't fight him. I do not know why he and Thorn would run, but if they were to return in my absence…_

_We will fight them._

_There will be no fight left,_ Saphira replied. _If Eragon fell so damnedly, you cannot hope to defeat them. The Varden will be lost if they come back. If Belatona falls, so does the rebellion. There is no other possibility, and I can find no plausible reason for their departure._

Arya took the words in but didn't digest them. She was trembling too hard to possess the ability. _Fly now. There will be time later for speculation. You must save him, Saphira. He must be saved. He is the only hope the Varden has left. That the world still has left._

_I will fly fast_, Saphira said. She unfurled her wings, pushing off of the ground without a start and showering dirt to the surrounding plains. Her claws tore up the grass as she took flight, leaving Arya behind, Belatona behind, soaring back towards Feinster and the only hope they had left, carrying the only hope they had come to trust.

Refusing to acknowledge anyone's presence beyond their own minds, Arya ignored her irrationality and sent good will to Saphira before the blue dragon soared beyond their ability to contact each other. _Save him_, Arya spoke to herself, her voice so different from her usual self but one which she trusted as her own soul. _He is all we have left. He is all that keeps us driving through the days._

If he died, so died the rebellion. The blue dragon, with this thought no doubt in mind, moved even quicker until she disappeared, leaving a morning tinged with red behind and five elves standing crestfallen on a hill, praying for miracles.

_If he dies, all is lost._

And she might just die with him.

* * *

><p><strong>Vakna – Awaken <strong>


	14. 13: A Dark Light

**Perhaps this is going better than I expected. I feel bad about this one, though. Not my best work. We'll see what you guys think.**

**Thanks to reviewers: RestrainedFreedom, The Pro, Daughter of King Orrin, Marshall88, Reader, JackoShadeslayer575, The Meepsta, warrior of worlds, kmc995 and Elvendiath.**

**Disclaimer: How dare ye bless me with such strange remarks?**

**13**

**A Dark Light**

_The first thing he noticed was that there was no light, wherever he was._

_The second thing he noticed was that it was quite bright indeed._

_These two thoughts put together confused him to no end, and it took him no short moment to try and make sense of how his brain could tell him two opposites, yet mean them both to their literal senses. He would have surmised that the notion made his head hurt, but that would involve having a head, as it were, and he wasn't completely positive that he did. However, that made little sense, since he was quite sure he _did _have a head. This, in turn, warranted the question of where it was, for he had the distinct feeling that he had misplaced it. Which confused the brain that was double-defining in the head which he couldn't seem to locate._

_For a cranium he couldn't locate, thoughts he shouldn't have been having were giving him a great deal of pain._

_He tried to reach out for Saphira, but without an unscrambled mind this was difficult. Even still, it was quite apparent that she was not there for him to touch, and this idea sent jolts of fear through his body. Their most intimate connection was still there, the one that bound each together and to the realistic world, but their communication was silent. He had imagined she may have been able to make sense of the weird spectrum he was observing, for it confused him to no end. Without her, however, he had little to do but try and discern his surroundings as his best abilities could do._

_He tried to get up, but startlingly realized that he didn't know whether he were sitting, lying, or standing. Furthermore, upon trying to move his body, he wasn't sure if he still had limbs. Or a torso, for that matter. He tried to look down to check whether or not he was right, but realized he didn't possess eyes._

_But that didn't make sense._

_After all, he could see light. And… dark…_

_He looked around, if that was how he chose to call it, and found that he could both see yet find himself enveloped in, truth to his senses, complete darkness. It was a strange sensation, enhanced by the lack of a body or function. He couldn't move nor did he seem to have a need to. It didn't take long for him to realize that existing with physically existing was rather a disconcerting feeling, and wondered how dragons could manage it for millennia. He realized that he should be quite afraid of wherever he was, as he had no recollection of how he got there or what had happened to him. However, no fear penetrated him. Come to think of it, his last thought was of… something. Or was it? He wasn't sure if he could remember having a last thought. There were _thoughts_, of course, memories, but they were all very distant and he wasn't sure they weren't figments of his imagination._

_He wished Saphira were there. She had always been better at navigating his mind than he had ever been._

_Saphira… Murtagh… He had been fighting Murtagh. The cuts on his back._

_Pain._

_He remembered. Eragon remembered. He tried frantically to feel his back before remembering that it wasn't there. Or, rather, wherever his back should have been wasn't within his reach and even if it had been he wouldn't have been able to feel it with the arm he seemed to have to lost, as well._

_He had been defeated. Murtagh had beaten him. It had been all too easy for Galbatorix's slave, his brother—his once friend—to scar and maim him as if he were nothing more than a pack mule, a lowly lord's concubine. For all of his training and his skill, there was no amount of power and strength he could have massed to even begin to contend with the stored might of the red rider._

_Shame filled the mind he knew existed. He had been beaten. _"I wasn't strong enough," _he said to himself. He heard nothing; he had no ears. No sense could have told him that he had actually spoken, yet he knew that he had. It was a strange experience, to say the least, and wonder turned to concern as he realized the last memory he actually had was Saphira's face beheld close to his own._

_Then, nothing. Then… here._

_What was this place?_

_He couldn't tell if he could only regard one section of whatever it was, or if everything was the same and he was observing all of it at once. Either way, the concentration his mind needed to focus on it seemed to expend a rather generous amount of energy. The familiar drain, however, seemed to be drawing on an endless supply of such energy, for he neither tired nor felt burdened by the weight of the effort._

_How strong this would make him. Strong._

_He hadn't been strong enough. Had he a fist and something to punch he would have done just that, angered as he was by the thought of weakness. He couldn't afford to be weak. The only free rider could be nothing but strong… but no…_

_He had been crippled. Eragon Shadeslayer, Eragon Bromsson had been vanquished by the puppet of the Dark king, as easily as if Murtagh had been striking aside a mere Urgal or slaver, as he had done so long ago… but not so long ago. So much had changed in so little time, so much maturing had been done. Yet still Eragon was too weak to make the victory that had to be achieved. It disgusted him._

_Again, he wondered where he was. Had he been captured?_

_Fear should have instilled itself at such possibilities, but the emotion of fright seemed to elude him here, for some reason or another. Despite this, the chance loomed heavy and near. If he had been captured, however, he could find no reason to be lucid, or not in discomfort. Or, for that matter, so in control of his thoughts. Unless his mind was being probed at that very instant, scouring him for information when his defenses were weak._

_Weak. Just like him._

_But he felt no probe, and he doubted that even Galbatorix could invade his private residences of memory and deliberation without leaving at least the slightest mental footprint behind. The question remained._

_Had he entered a state of healing, as Arya had to slow down her bodily functions and sustain her own life? He hadn't known that he possessed such abilities if that was what was occurring now. It was a strange existence if it proved true, although the prospect told him that he couldn't be mentally invaded, since Arya was quite aware when he tried to touch hers for the first time._

_Arya._

_He hoped she was safe. She had been on the battlefield. She had told him not to fight Murtagh alone… she had been right, of course. Of _course_. But he had been so consumed by his rage, his fury, even as he suppressed it simultaneously, that he had just rushed headlong in. Because Oromis and Glaedr were dead, and the traitor had to pay. If he had only listened to Arya, he wouldn't be here, wherever here was, and Murtagh wouldn't have won, if winning was whatever that could be described as._

_And whenever Arya was right he either ended up on the short end of the stick or regretted going against her will. Despite Saphira's jests, there were some days where he really wished there was a good human female with whom he could share his burden, his willpower, his life, instead of falling prey to the fates that he couldn't control. _

_He should have listened to her._

_He wondered what was going on right now. Wherever Belatona was, that is. He was assuming, first of all, that he was not, in fact, dead, since he could still feel his link with Saphira, even if it was not connected directly and securely. Secondly, he was predicting that he hadn't been captured, as there wasn't the slightest discomfort that he could detect. As for the other elements, he could only forage rough guesses at the best, but supposed that anything was better than being captured. In the distant fringes of memory, he could remember Thorn flying off, leaving him behind with Saphira. So there was a good sign._

_Right?_

_But the Varden… how fared the Varden? Why had Murtagh left? To desecrate them? Eragon knew Saphira would never forgive herself for the dishonor, but that she would flee if his condition was bad enough, if only to save his life. Perhaps this is what had occurred. Perhaps his incapacity to fight had spelled doom for the rebellion._

_Did that mean they were all dead? It was only a possibility, Eragon reminded himself, and he shouldn't dwell on possibilities that had opportunity to be completely wrong, especially when they were so grim._

_The world around him continued to elude his comprehension. With little to go on sense-wise and no knowledge to guide him, Eragon felt effectively and conclusively lost, even if there was nowhere to go and the fact could have been that he was nowhere. He was fairly certain he was trapped in some remote cave of his mind, but for what reason he couldn't fathom. He had little clue as to whether it was induced or just a strange sleep he had never before experienced. To this end, he briefly tried to "wake up", but found that he could not., if he was in fact "sleeping". This thought caused him worry, but still no fear._

_He cast out his mind, beyond what he could understand by corporeal senses, and tried to meet the barriers or openness of others. _Nothing_. It was as if the world was empty, where he was the last soul in an incongruent place. Save for the small comfort that Saphira was alive, at least—else their connection would be brutally and painfully severed—Eragon could not sense what was going on outside his little spectrum. If there _was_ anything outside of his little spectrum. But it was impractical to assume otherwise, so he did._

_When he had been growing up in Carvahall, Brom had told stories of great heroes falling into stupors that resembled what he felt like right now, in the middle of battles or in moments where they most needed their courage. In them, there was always another power, a greater force that came to them in their confusion, seeking them out and giving them precious council in the times where they most needed support and confidence. It was similar to how Oromis had contacted Eragon when Durza had crippled him, but even at that time Eragon hadn't felt so alone as this. Flooded with unfamiliar memories and the power of a mind as strong and old as Oromis' had comforted him. Oromis was dead. Eragon could feel no pain for anyone to help him combat. And if he had fallen into a self-induced stupor as Arya had when he and Murtagh rescued her from Gil'ead, he should have at least been able to cast his mind out and sense the presence of others around him. Unless he was vastly weaker than she, or otherwise _completely _alone, he assumed something else held his consciousness in this strange realm._

_How he hoped she was safe… the Varden, as well. He cursed Murtagh and cursed himself for his weakness. If he were only as strong as he was supposed to be, as Oromis and Brom expected him to be, this would not have occurred. Murtagh would be dead. Belatona would be secure and one of Galbatorix' most powerful servants would be gone. Arya would be safe. He would have time to rest._

_Alas, he was not strong enough._

"Garjzla_," he whispered, or thought he whispered. He had no way to tell, but he had meant the words purely, by mind or word, and spoken or not he should have felt the magic inside of him. No light appeared, nor did anything else change. The darkness and lightness remained, akin to each other, mocking him with their mystery._

_He thought back to the battle and wondered what he could have done differently. _Not charging would have been a good start_, he thought to himself, unsure if he spoke, as well. He should have been quicker, should not have lowered his defenses, even slightly, to contact Saphira. He had utilized the training he had been so precariously taught, yet he had still been defeated handily, and aside from his physical incapacities he wasn't sure how he could have otherwise mastered his brother in combat._

_If he _had _waited for Arya and the elves… would it have been any different? That question would probably never receive an answer. Truthfully, he doubted that even with their assistance he would be anywhere except for where he was. In the end, it was his own strength, his own power—or his lack of it—that was the source of his loss. No amount of magic or manpower could have turned the tides, in the end, with such trivial weaknesses._

_His injuries had been grievous, that much he remembered, and Murtagh hadn't been merciful once Eragon had been down. To be fair, Eragon had challenged him once defeated, and been thrown down once more, and each time Murtagh left him the opportunity to stay down. The pure strength of the red rider had defeated him, Eragon concluded. Not even the full strength. A snatch of a vast array of the power the world had never before seen._

If I cannot even beat Murtagh_, Eragon thought, _then how can I possibly slay Galbatorix?

You allow yourself to be weak_, the other side of the argument told him, both voices his own, battling parts of his mind. _There are times to be sentimental, times to insure that you do not become as heartless and cruel as them, to show compassion for your comrades and your friends and allies and life… but there are also times when you must become a weapon, cold as steel and devious in order to achieve victory.

That is not my way, though. _He was well aware of the point he made, in balancing the good side of power with the bad and how it should be played out. He saw different lights shining through the argument, though, lights that cast a historic glow over events that shaped the horrible turn of events for Alagaësia. _That is not how Riders are. Riders are compassionate even when facing down their enemies. As a Rider, I uphold the traditions and mannerisms that have played out since the beginning of the centuries when elves and dragons warred.

But I am the last free Rider left… _The thought struck him with clarity, and it was true. The world had shifted around him, around all of them. The land had changed, grown old and weathered with the tyranny of evil. Galbatorix was not hindered by the worries of humility and respect as he was. The dark king had no such restraints on the way he conducted his affairs. Eragon could never compare with such power, even if he controlled the vastest sources of energy in the nation, without forsaking his most precious ideals._

_While he knew this, however, Eragon refused to stoop to the level of ignorance and hate that the dark king employed. He would not commit killing without remorse at his actions. He would not permit slaying of innocents if it meant his tasks were completed. He could not; he would not even if he could. This was his weakness, he realized, and he cherished it… his love of life and contentment would be his ultimate undoing._

_The Varden's Last Hope._

_Argetlam. Shadeslayer. Bromsson. Firesword._

_They were all names of respect that he bore, outside of the existence of mystery and confounding nature as he floated in oblivion. He had earned them; not wielded them with cruelty and lies. He thought of all the people, dwarves, humans, elves, Urgals, that had put their faith and their blessings into him, for his success. Faces flashed through his eye, if not before his eyes, and an undying sense of love enraptured him. Love was his power, but it was also the thinnest link of the chain of his soul._

_He had to be stronger. He had to be a Rider. If the Varden _was _gone, if Murtagh had obliterated their ranks—if Arya had perished—he would not allow his suffering to control his actions. He needed to be the better man to the man he had been before. He had to follow his teachings, never allow anger or fear or vengeance cloud his thoughts and judgment again. His thoughts would be clear and focused, and considerate of all yet acting on the few. He would not falter at diversity and would not balk at love when it embraced him in the eyes of life. He refused to be influenced any longer by the greedy emotions of an individual. He was a Rider, and he was Eragon. He would make the two different personalities merge as a stronger individual._

_Eragon withdrew the pleading tendrils of his mind from the outside world and decided to be patient. Either he would be retrieved from this world of nothingness and everything or he would eventually be forced to find a way out of it himself. Either way, it would come to him, and he would be in control of his thoughts and actions when it did._

_His thoughts drifted over loving memories of Saphira, flying, gracing the clouds, tearing through meat, sharing each other's comforting presence through nights. It kept him sane through the endless moments._

_And then he thought of Arya, and he wondered how things would pan out. She could not have died… for someone he cared so much for, he would have felt her… Would he not have? If he looked unto the world only in peace when he awoke from this endless slumber, what would he see of her? Hate for him in her eyes, misgivings passed on forgotten words, while he would have done anything to turn the events around? Anything to turn back the dials of time only a few exhausting days and return their relationship to friendship? He wondered if she looked onto him with as much misery and disgust as he looked upon himself._

_Pain. Scars. Mysteries. Those were things that he would meet, of the body and mind alike. He would be forced to rise from the ashes of his former self, become more powerful, draw upon magic he had never before known, secrets unlocked that he had never considered. He would have to conquer his own mind once again, and never relinquish it to the darkness—never become as low and sick and cold as Galbatorix—again._

_He would be ready, whenever he awoke, to sacrifice everything he possessed to save all of those he loved. Until that moment would come, resting in dreams of Arya and his maginificent partner-of-mind, Eragon resolved to wait until light returned._


	15. 14: Flight and Right

**Usually I despise splitting a chapter between points-of-view, even though (cue hypocritical me) I'm done it a few times already in this story. I just didn't want to split this one into two separate chapters, however, so I decided oh hell let's go with it. My dream for this fiction is 1000 reviews. Obviously, I've never achieved that before and it would be glorious to my esteem as a writer.**

**Thanks to reviewers: ****The Meepsta****, ****Elvendiath****, ****kmc995****, ****Pens Insanity**** (x2), ****Daughter of King Orrin****, ****ShadedWriterOfTheDarkness****, ****Unique Fantasiser****, ****RestrainedFreedom****, ****oromisfan768****, ****Tsukune08****, Wolfyman123, ****The Pro****, ****DawnsRedemption****, ****Loryk Southern Guardian****, Reader and ****warrior of worlds****.**

**Disclaimer: I didn't write a novel when I was fifteen, no! …. I was fourteen. :P**

**14**

**Flight and Right**

Either Murtagh was assisting the Empire's Army in some wildly magical way or his presence was their sole boost of confidence, for the moment he began to soar away half of the army cried out in dismay. As it became quite clear that he wouldn't be coming back, those who still lived dropped their weapons, for the most part, and those who tried to flee or continue the battle were easily taken care of.

The elves rushed back to the battlefield once they had spoken their blessings for Eragon, and aided in the disposal of the remaining miscreants. Arya took several minutes further to compose herself, calming and stamping out her turbulent emotions before following her brethren. By the time she arrived at Belatona's walls the Varden were chanting victoriously, ushering the five hundred prisoners of war they now held captive into the city's walls. The elves escorted the soldiers inside, wearing grim faces. By the multitude of reactions, Arya could tell that Eragon's plight had gone unobserved by anyone who had a voice.

Nasuada sat atop her steed, beaming at the soldiers and holding a fist high in victory at the threshold of the gate, surrounded by happily growling Urgals and smiling bodyguards. Her pride was unrestrained; she knew nothing. Arya caught her eye across forty yards and received an array of happy teeth gleaming at her, which she, under no circumstances of the present, could not find in herself to return.

She trudged around the Varden's army, a great deal of which stood outside the gates still, wary of anything. What was left filed into the city to the great cries of joy and fear alike of the citizens. Arya skirted around them, rushing to Nasuada's side. Blodhgram and the elves had congregated on the opposite side of the column of men, and were watching with solemn faces. Their gazes passed evenly between the northeast, where Thorn had disappeared, and Arya as she approached Nasuada's entourage.

"It didn't go perfectly, but it went," Nasuada said happily as Arya approached, before the elf had a chance to speak. "Where is Eragon? I wish to congratulate him. I never expected him to defeat Murtagh without killing him, but it appears as though he has done just that." She noticed the blank expression on Arya's face, and the wonderful smile on her own dissipated just the tiniest fraction. "What is it, my—"

"We must speak, away from the soldiers," Arya interrupted, something she wouldn't have done under any other circumstances. At the moment, all of her patience was tried and she was through with delaying. Every second of her time and the world's time was precious, and although she no longer had an influence over how it would affect the blue rider she refused to waste any of it. "Immediately."

Nasuada was momentarily rendered speechless, caught, seemingly, between offense and shock. She recovered without acting on either emotion, for which Arya was thankful, instead making a brief order with a guard to enter and respectfully empty a first floor building just within the city gates. The human male nodded and proceeded to squeeze through the procession and go about his task.

The leader of the Varden and Arya regarded each other with gravity for a long several moments, neither speaking, until the man returned and announced that he had emptied the foyer of an inn just inside of the first street. The army entering the city halted to allow Nasuada's passage, for which the ebony-skinned woman put on her victory grin and raised her fist again for the troops. They rallied and roared at her gesture, resuming their steadfast march cheerily as she passed into their conquered city.

The entourage crossed to the inn, on the left side of Belatona's entrance, a crumbling old building built into its companions around it with an old hand. Its windows were bleak and empty, and there was only the light from the outside streaming in on the interior. The Urgals took up forward positions while Nasuada's human guards flanked the door. Nasuada beckoned to Arya and they both crossed into the unremarkable lobby, covered in dust and grit and mildly repugnant.

Nasuada turned to Arya as the door closed behind them, leaving the two women in the darkness of the room, closed off from the outside world. Arya whispered a spell to hide their conversations from any potential eavesdroppers, and then Nasuada dropped her façade of strength and let worry crease her face. "This is about Eragon, isn't it? What has he done? Where is he?"

Arya refused to let the repercussions of her earlier pain—Eragon's pain—bleed over into her expression. "Murtagh and Thorn did not fly away because Murtagh had been bested and spared by Eragon."

"What?" Nasuada breathed, barely more than a whisper. "Where is Eragon?"

The two of them made eye contact. "Murtagh gained the upper hand and incapacitated him. For some reason I do not know, Murtagh did not kill him. Likewise, I do not know why Murtagh flew away, leaving the army behind. Perhaps foul trickery of Galbatorix is at play, but it was not because he was bested in single combat."

Nasuada, a stricken expression across her face, stumbled to a chair and collapsed in it. "No, this… this can't be." A silence filled the small room, pain covering the extent of it, as well. Arya didn't need to voice the truth twice, and Nasuada knew this. Slowly, the Varden's leader turned her head upward to meet Arya's mournful gaze. "Has he… is… is Eragon dead?"

"His wounds were beyond my ability to heal, and he is on the edge," Arya replied. "The herbalist Angela was the only one who could heal him the last time he received injuries he could not withstand through conventional healing practices. Time was short. Saphira agreed to fly with him to Feinster at her highest speed, but I do not know the extent of his injuries. He could succumb at any moment, if he has not already. His life hangs in the balance."

Nasuada looked faint, and bowed her head in weariness. There were several moments of only thought, in which Arya's emotions continued to rile beneath her surface, and finally the Varden's leader spoke. "What happened?"

"I know nothing for certain. Murtagh incapacitated Eragon with a blow to the head. I am all but certain he sustained a concussion, and Murtagh then struck him twice in the back with Zar'roc. Eragon was too injured to continue their duel, but Murtagh would not kill him. I do not know what transpired, but Thorn retrieved Murtagh and they flew away without warning. I ran to Eragon just before he passed out. He said nothing."

"Saphira is flying him to Angela?" Nasuada affirmed. "Then there is yet hope."

"There is always hope, Nasuada."

Nasuada stood again, appearing slightly offended. "He _is_ our hope, Arya! I rally the men around his expectations, morals and war cries. They look up to him as their god. He is their beacon of hope to defeat Galbatorix, him and Saphira! Without him, we have no hope of marching on Urû'baen without getting trampled by Shruikan before firing a single arrow! He is everything to Varden… we need him. I need him! We can't afford for him to die, Arya."

"You speak impractically," Arya retorted coolly. She felt anger simmer alongside fear and despair inside of her. "_And _egotistically. He was injured defending you from Murtagh, and it was on behalf of the Varden that he somehow convinced Murtagh to fly away, leaving the army unscathed. Whether he dies or not, he was already sacrificed more for you than any other human in this entire land, and you are not worrying whether or not he will survive through his dangers to live on but if he can return to fight for you! He deserves respect, not responsibilities and burdens heaped upon his shoulders. Consider that with your _hopes_."

Her voice had escalated involuntarily through the course of her rebuke, and Nasuada's eyebrows followed its unexpected ascent. The human woman began to pace, sighing as she did so. "You're right. Forgive me. I allowed my personal motives interfere with my words. Of course I am more concerned for Eragon's survival. It is merely that we are here because of his plan, and alive because of his abilities on the battlefield. Without him, I fear we are outrageously outmatched by the power of the king. But you are right, I have shown disrespect for his life, and I regret it."

"Time is short for apologies," Arya replied. She wasn't quite sure why. She decided that she was acting irrationally, even under composure; she may have rejected Nasuada's remorse only because it was a belated token of reunion. "His life is out of our hands now. The Empire's reinforcements are gone, and Belatona's encampments are under control. The nearest contingency is in Dras-Leona, at least two days march from here, and the Jiet bridges have been remade of stone, which, even by elven magic, will be much more difficult to dispose of."

"Can it be done?"

"Yes," Arya replied. "It will require more time, but it can be accomplished relatively simply. If Murtagh returns bearing another army, it could occur again, however."

"We will greater problems, then. I believe we will begin immediately entrenching ourselves here. This is where we will stand for the winter, as Eragon's plan required it." Arya nodded to Nasuada's words, and the human stopped pacing. Their gazes drifted until they once again held the other's. Arya had never had reason before to consider the relationship between Eragon and the Varden's leader, but didn't know if it extended past liege and vassal, towards an actual friendship. Or perhaps something else. "What will I tell the Varden?"

"I would be most careful with the truth," Arya replied, "but an ill-conceived lie or dissenting ruse may be worse."

"They will notice if he's just _gone_. Especially with no Saphira, and after a great victory. If I say the truth, their morale will disappear completely. And with the winter approaching so swiftly… that cannot occur."

"Have faith. You must trust in Angela to save him."

"And if he dies?" Nasuada's face was as grim as death. "If he dies and I have told them he lives… the truth will become twisted. The rumors will be endless. The Varden would lose all trust in each other. That possibility is too fearful to conceive."

"Then you must tell them the truth," Arya said. "And you must ask for their prayers in bidding the Shadeslayer a safe recovery." Nasuada was silent, making no motion to reply and giving no inclination that she had any interest in doing so. Arya waited a courteous moment before continuing. "I am running after them to Feinster."

Nasuada looked up, an emotionless mask hiding her thoughts once again. "I have no authority to stop you, Arya, though I wish you would reconsider. It is, as you said yourself, out of our hands, and if Murtagh returns to attack I fear we will need you more than ever in Eragon's absence."

"My motives and actions are my own," Arya replied. "I inform you only so that you are aware of my choice and the reason I could not be found. I will leave immediately, so that I no longer influence your decision as leader."

Nasuada nodded. There was ample opportunity for her to reply, but she made no attempt to speak, only staring off into the distance as if try to formulate her thoughts in a concise and proper fashion. Finally, when too much time had passed for comfort, Arya deemed their conversation finished and began to cross to leave the inn lobby.

"Wait," Nasuada said, and moved over to catch the elf on the arm. The contact was friendly, but with a human Arya had never known very well it was strangely unwelcome. She rarely touched or allowed herself to touch others, especially humans, and she barely managed to restrain herself from striking the arm away. "I had noticed… that the past few days, you and Eragon seemed to be at odds with one another. Is this true?"

Arya tensed, the memories fresh and remorseful. "We met our differences."

Nasuada read the evident ice emanating from the elf, and softened her expression. "I understand that it's none of my business, and I don't mean to pry, but if I may inquire… why did you seem so angry?"

"It was a trivial matter," Arya snapped, hardly making her tone polite enough to pass. She blinked once to regain herself, and then apologized. "I am sorry, Lady Nasuada. You are correct; it is not your place to ask. If I may be excused, I have a journey ahead of me."

Nasuada appeared slightly rebuked, unaccustomed, but she gradually released Arya's arm, although she looked steadily more displeased as the exit was resumed. "Very well, Arya. I pray that you find what you want to in Feinster. You carry the hopes of the Varden with you, and let Eragon knows he carries our prayers. Greatest speed."

* * *

><p>Saphira had never flown quicker in her life. Grass, fields, huts every now and again shot past them only several hundred feet below as she tore frantically through the sky at a low altitude. Only two things kept her attention besides her flying; her fiendish fury and the barely-breathing two-legged-round-ear on her back. Her partner-of-mind.<p>

She knew he was breathing only because she could still feel his heart thumping against her back, hear his mind whispering just beyond her comprehension of hearing. It was frustrating to be so close to understanding yet so far away, but she endured it, focused as she had to be on saving his life. The pain still clutching at their link had rescinded to all but a terrible ache, and she prayed that, although she couldn't sense to tell whether or not it was true, that he wasn't suffering in the deepest depths of his unconsciousness.

If she had only been within range, she could have saved him from this… but she had not, and she didn't pretend as if it were a mistake as Eragon would. She accepted the fact that she had been occupied elsewhere and she wouldn't remorse for her own actions. The pain her rider felt, on the other foreleg, was a matter that dealt her no small amount of misery. Thinking of it only made her try and strain herself for a few quicker wing strokes.

The golden-mother-of-all was nearly at its highest point in the sky by the time Saphira flew within sight of Feinster once more. The camps around the city were farther and fewer, spread around the walls. Many of the remaining members of the Varden had taken refuge within the city in the army's absence. The families of the fighters were keeping the city in heavy operation, no doubt to distract themselves from the danger their loved ones were marching into. Tents were fewer and dwindling; many were either moving into the city's protection or preparing to march elsewhere, whether that was to the assumed-victory in Belatona or for return to Surda.

A tent, surrounded by trodden patches of yellowing grass and flattened turf, stood relatively alone in the fields, removed from the remaining structures pitched around the outskirts of the city. Saphira knew whom its occupant was from Eragon's many ventures amongst the camps, and veered towards it the moment she caught sight of the flapping extremities in her immensely powerful vision.

The short witch was seated outside of her tent on a most crude chair, that looked as if it would cave in at any moment beneath her weight. She was mashing things in a giant pestle, completely concentrated so that she didn't even notice Saphira's approach until the daughter-of-the-wind hit the ground shakingly mere yards away, skidding across the dirt and leaving giant ruts in her wake.

Despite the evident surprise, Angela didn't jump. She merely glanced up, beaming profusely, and hummed happily to herself. "Oh, you dragons. Such wonderful entrances." Her eyes traveled down Saphira's trembling flank, as the larger female felt anxiety and impatience grip her body. Abruptly, Angela's eyes fell over Eragon slumped in the saddle, and she started. "What happened?"

Saphira threw her exhausted mind against Angela's, meeting a vice resistance that few in the world could possess. Only reluctantly, and much too slow for the pressing time that was left, Saphira felt her loudest mental cries sneak past the loosened barriers of the witch. _He is injured gravely! The elves cannot heal his wounds—there is no time to waste with talking. He must be saved!_

The urgency of the message was not lost on Angela. She rushed around Saphira's forelegs and gripped at Eragon's body. Saphira tried to turn her head to see what the smaller creature was doing, but couldn't sum up the energy to follow the actions transpiring against her partner-of-mind on her back. She trusted Angela to be cautious and safe, all circumstances considering.

A precious moment passed, and then Angela rushed back before her. "He is very weak! I must get him inside immediately! I need you to lift him into the tent, Saphira. I'm not strong enough myself."

_I don't think I can, _Saphira replied. She had been ignoring the pain and exhaustion shooting through her overexerted limbs, but now that she was halted and her muscles physically relaxing, soreness and cramping was beginning to seize upon her.

Angela cursed, and rushed into her tent. Saphira didn't call after her, though dismay at their wasted time did appear in her mind. Before she had opportunity to protest, Angela returned through the mouth of the tent, stressfully dragging her sturdy cot with her. She crossed quickly to Saphira's side farthest from the tent and undid the straps holding Eragon to the saddle with a practiced hand. Once those were untied she rounded the daughter-of-the-wind and did the same on the other side. Carefully, while Saphira tried to help, she bore the brunt of Eragon's weight as she lowered him chest-first onto the cot. All the while, Saphira noticed the witch's eyes dash towards the city walls, trying to see if their operation had been seen. Saphira didn't check herself, but she had flown clear out of the sky and landed hastily; there was little doubt that they had been.

_He has a concussion,_ Saphira pushed towards Angela as the latter heaved and wrestled until she managed to squeeze the cot a sizable distance back into the tent. Saphira wearily snaked her head in through the flap so as to observe the process. With as much strength as she could muster, she whimpered and licked Eragon's bloody face with a shaking tongue.

"Wonderful," Angela breathed back, worriedly and sarcastically. She rushed to her shelves and immediately began grabbing herbs from slots, cream from vats, potions from lines of bottles. "Oh, dear, oh, dear, why must you always be so gravely hurt, dear rider?"

Saphira watched as Angela worked. A few times the witch sat Eragon up and somehow induced his unconscious body to swallow potions. Saphira tried to help drag his destroyed armor from his body, but she was too afraid her spikes or teeth would injure him further, and Angela was forced to do it all herself. When his back was completely exposed she took pastes and oils and rubbed them across its extent, moistening the tissue that bled freely. Saphira was mystified as the minutes passed by as the skin gradually seemed to shimmer before rippling and trying to _mold_ itself back together over a framework of scar tissue.

Several times Angela cursed and hastily reapplied her instruments to places she had only just covered a first time. She mashed up ingredients, spinning them in bowls of boiled water before dipping a cloth into the concoctions and dripped the result over his wounds. Saphira was only slightly comforted as the skin sealed itself over, leaving hot white scars molding a sharp cross on his back.

An hour passed; Saphira was so tired it may have been two, she wouldn't have known. Angela's pace and cursing slowed, and her hands smoothed over Eragon's back accompanied by lengthy grimaces, instead of fierce expressions of concentration. Finally, she stopped applying remedies and mixed a potion. Saphira watched as she tilted Eragon's head to the side and very carefully poured it into his ear, causing alarm. The liquid sizzled horribly as it contacted skin.

Saphira hissed in dismay and bared her teeth at the witch, but, far from being afraid, Angela merely shook her head and raised a hand in a calming gesture. "Fear not, great Saphira. It is a mixture for healing soft things of the body. Conceived in the right way, it could heal even the most twisted dysfunction of an important organ. Vaeyanoë; the dwarves and elves discovered it long ago… one of the rare occasions where their races actually came together for a reason other than dispute. It should help greatly with his concussion. I may have down all I can, I fear. I believe his body has turned itself around, but when he will awake? I cannot be sure. We can only wait now."

Relatively satisfied, the great sapphire daughter-of-the-wind curled herself down next to the cot. She would have slept, for how tired she felt, but she doubted that she could with such fear in her heart. Eragon's breathing steadied as more time passed. Angela brought her chair inside and sat next to him, watching over him. She muttered incomprehensively to herself and applied more items to the injured man at irregular intervals. The day waned older outside of the tent, surprising Saphira with how much time had gone by in Angela's care. _When light came into this world today, we were attacking Belatona. Now my rider has almost died and the traitor spared him an uncertain fate._

A number of consciousnesses suddenly entered her shortened range of detection. Her head snapped up from her haunches, removing itself from the mouth of the tent as she did so. She sniffed the air, the light of day nearly disappearing in the distant sunset of the west, and growled suspiciously at the trespassers of the darkness.

A dozen or so soldiers were marching towards them, Varden by loyalty. They wielded no weapons, although they carried them, and they appeared more uncertain than anything else. Their leader, a frighteningly young captain, didn't appear too happy to approach in the manner that they had. Stabbing protectively and effortlessly into their minds, Saphira discovered that they had been debating for a matter of hours whether or not to approach her as half of her body remained inside of the lone tent of the field and the other half out.

The congregation halted abruptly only twenty yards away when her face flashed outside and she bared her teeth. The leader gulped, clear even in the darkness. "We do not mean to be trespassing on your grounds, great dragon, but your presence is… is… somewhat surprising and unsettling. Please… we have heard observations that Eragon Shadeslayer is in the tent. May we speak with him, your greatness?"

Saphira growled, her message clear. To her annoyance, the two-legs persisted.

"Forgive me, but we must understand what has happened. What has occurred at Belatona? Why are you here? Please, we must have our answers, Mighty Brightscales." The captain took a step closer to the tent, and Saphria shot a clear jet of flames from her nostrils, singing the ground close to their feet. He yelped and took a step back.

Fury and fear flashed simultaneously in the captain's eyes, and Saphira wondered how much indication they would need before they left. She felt Angela's own apprehension behind her but ignored it. The captain seemed unsettled and uncertain, and Saphira knew he was weighing the risks of offending a dragon and the Varden's rider fagainst the answers all of Feinster now inevitably sought, probably. He seemed no closer to a resolution, though Saphira continued a consistent growl in the small battalion's general direction, until another figure shied out of the shadows and stepped between the two parties.

"What is the matter here?" Arya said, her musical voice hindered by emotionless fatigue.

Saphira expressed a surge a gratitude and warmth at the elf's appearance. The smaller female looked as weary, if possible, as the larger, and her leather armor, worn still despite the passing hours, was caked in mud. Countless devices of blood covered Arya's body, hands, and the fringes of her face. Her body sagged, though still in a somewhat regal manner, and her breath actually came in measured, yet heavy, draughts.

The men, as enraptured by her as Eragon was on his emotional days, stumbled to regain themselves in her presence. The captain himself experienced an array of difficulty before righting himself. "Forgiveness, Lady Arya." He bowed slightly before continuing. "The great dragon flew in with what appeared to be Rider Shadeslayer on her back many hours ago, but he has not been seen after entering this tent and many of us in the city are beginning to grow uneasy with these strange events. We were merely trying to discern what was going on out here."

Arya turned cold eyes on them all. "The matters of rider and dragon are theirs and _not _yours. You would do well to return now to the city and await a commission from Belatona with new orders for you all. I should not have to explain how dangerous it is to offend or threaten a dragon."

Impressed, Saphira watched as the men gained a slippery grip on themselves, suddenly realizing exactly what they were doing. The captain, relatively horrified, bowed lower again. "M-My apologies, my Lady. I trust the battle went well, then?"

"It is none of your concern. Go."

"Yes, my Lady." A lower bow was tremblingly presented to Saphira. "I beg pardon, great one." With no further words, the small group of Varden soldiers spun and almost ran back to Feinster. If the situation were any less grim the sight would have been more than enough to induce a chuckle from Saphira.

But the situation was very grim indeed.

_Thank you_, Saphira murmured to Arya. A mental connection was established instantly between them, and almost before her eyes Arya morphed from a cold being to an incredibly troubled and terrified individual.

_Is he well? _Arya replied without preamble, conveying her greetings for Saphira in mental bursts unable to be sent by words.

_He lives. Angela worked for many passages of hours upon him. His wounds are closed, but blood remains. She says that she has completed her processes and that if all is well he should awake when the time is right._

A flash of relief combined with growing apprehension flashed terribly slowly across Arya's face before being replaced once again by a struggling determination to remain perfectly neutral. _I have run since briefly after you left. Murtagh did not return, which concerns us all. That is for another time, however._

Arya walked around Saphira, who drew back without hesitation to allow Arya entrance to the tent before returning her head to the opening to observe the exchange between the two magic-wielding females inside.

Angela glanced up at the elf's entrance and gave a weary grin. "Ah, you have come. I trust you were there when this occurred, my dear?"

"In a manner of interpretation," Arya replied. Saphira could see her hands shaking ever-so-slightly as she cast her eyes over Eragon's contorted face, resting atop the cot as if he were only sleeping as any annoying male would. Under the gazes of the other two, she began to reach a hand towards his face, as if by involuntary movement, and suddenly snatched it back as if realizing what she was doing.

"Go on," Angela urged, tending to more herbs. Her eyes remained on Arya, however. "No one will judge you here. See for yourself the things this young rider endures once again."

Arya circled him but didn't touch him. Clearly—or, at least, clearly to Saphira—all three of them were having difficulty holding composure as Eragon lay between them unconscious. Blood stained the grass and sheets, fresh. The sight of it made Saphira want to tear creatures apart, but the urges were replaced instead by regret and remorse. Arya looked up harshly at Angela and snapped, "Will he live?"

"He should, by all means," the herbalist replied. "Most would not have, though. I rarely am subject to such healing practices, but I have never seen one so injured as he come back so far in such a short time. His strength is holding incredibly well. He should even return to full strength in time."

"How were you able to heal him so simply?" Arya asked. She had halted, and stood frozen in air.

"Secrets I cannot share, my dear. Secrets Saphira couldn't tell you even though she observed everything I did to him. I can only hope to tell you that since I am done with him he should be the same person he was before when he awakens. I am sure he will be as glad to see you as you will be to see him."

_If he is crippled in any way, _Saphira broadcast to both of them, _I will burn Urû'baen myself and tear Murtagh apart bone-by-bone before I let Eragon be subjected to such tortures ever again._

"Durza's wound was different," Angela replied, clearly considering it in her head. She sighed eventually, and shrugged. "But this was clearly caused by a magic blade, as well. You say it was Murtagh who dealt him these blows?"

"Aye," Arya murmured, barely more than a whisper. "It was he. He overpowered Eragon and struck him several times." Again, she seemed to reach out towards the fallen, resting rider before pulling herself back again. "The fool refused to concede."

Despite the angst of the moment, Saphira felt an unexpected rush of pride force itself to the fore of her mind. Embracing it, she let the warm feeling flow into her link with Eragon, willing him to heal. Angela, likewise, smiled as they stared down at Eragon. "Always was a fool, that one, I suppose. An exceptionally bright and courageous fool."

_And he will be foolish again_, Saphira stated, more with hope than actual conviction. Arya glanced towards the large female and the two made and held eye contact for several moments. Meanings without words passed between them, thoughts without coherent structure… shared emotions of completely different beginnings.

"Alas," Angela said. Arya turned sharply, as though Angela had popped spontaneously into existence instead of being present the entire time. "I believe I have done all I am able to. It is up to him now. Take comfort; he is strong and his spirits have always been high. He will awaken with time. I must rest." She rose from her chair and replaced her remaining things onto the shelves, before crossing towards blankets spread out against the ground at another end of the tent. "I extend my small home to you both and your rider, Saphira, of course."

The witch blew out the only candle still lit in the tent. With a final smile to her two conscious guests, she lay down over the blankets and became still with sleep, or as close to an approximation as Angela knew. Saphira remained stationary, crouched on forelegs and staring down towards Eragon with equal hope and worry alike. Arya, likewise, stood as still as stone above the cot, watching over with anonymity and opaqueness.

For many long moments, the tent was completely still. The witch slept; the elf stood; the dragon thought. The only sound came from the wind flapping at the fabric of the walls.

Then, Arya turned her face towards Saphira in the dark. Unbidden, their minds touched. _I was frightened, Saphira. I was terrified. I have not felt such strong emotions since… the last time great danger seized the moment. If Murtagh had cut a finger deeper… where would we be without him?_

_It is unwise to dwell, Emerald-Eyes, _Saphira crooned. _Besides, he is quite alive and his breath spreads warmth into my flesh, and yours. I rejoice that my rider remains with us._

_Yes. _But the word came with uncertainty; words were left unspoken on the air. Moments stretched longer into the silence, Saphira bidding no farther for conversation and Arya's side unspoken. The elf turned her face back towards Eragon, and her midnight hair fell so that even Saphira could not discern her expression. The larger creature laid herself down, resting next to the cot, closing her eyes in weariness.

It was only an hour later, as Saphira's breath finally began to slow, that she sensed movement on the air; Arya's form as she shifted closer to the cot. In the faintest awakening of Saphira's mind, the elf breathed her finished thought. _But what if he had perished?_

Saphira didn't reply. To a round-ear's eyes and ears she was all but asleep, though Arya could have detected her restlessness instantly. Yet despite the fact that she was sure the elf knew her to be wide awake, the strongest, most secret feeling she had ever experienced leaked into their link from the depths of Arya's most protected memories—by no accident—and were she anything less than she was Saphira would not have believed what she felt.

Arya gave no indication she was aware of what had passed silently between them. _I only wish he were awake._


	16. 15: Wiol Eka

**I feel like I would rather not move into the next stage already, but a lack of action is present and I feel there needs to be another hook to not lose of all of your attention spans, massive as they already are. :) Please bare with me as I speed the timeline a couple of days here. Anyway, this is about the time in our program where we polarize our main characters.**

**Thanks to reviewers: ****warrior of worlds****, ****RestrainedFreedom****, ****DawnsRedemption****, ****Elvendiath****, ****Eragon Byrnsie**** and Wolfyman123.**

**Disclaimer: …No, seriously, I was **_**fourteen**_**! Don't kill me!**

**15**

**Wiol Eka**

Arya lost track of time in the deeper hours of the night, but the sun rose again in the morning and she was fairly certain she hadn't done more than doze, tired as she was from the exhausting sprint from Belatona.

Eragon did not wake in the morning, to her dismay but not surprise. Angela rose steadily from her blankets from the corner, crossing to Eragon. She gave Arya a dim smile and placed her hand against his forehead. "Morning."

Arya only nodded, far from having the cheer or the emotion to return the goodwill. "How is he?"

"Unchanged," Angela sighed. "But none the worst, at least. He hasn't reacted poorly or violently to any of the items I administered, which is always a good sign. I think he'll just have to pull through it on his own now. I'll keep checking on him every hour, to make sure he's all right. Fear not; nothing to worry about until something goes downhill, as I always say, and what everything the rolls down eventually comes to rest and climb up again."

Arya wasn't sure what Angela was insinuating by her final statement, but she was relatively confident it had been meant to boost her feelings. She didn't even have the energy to comprehend whether it had worked or not, and simply ignored the words. Saphira glanced at her, but she refused to meet the dragoness' gaze. She felt strange this morning, different in some way that she couldn't identify.

Hours passed, and she left the tent to find food, eager to be away from Eragon, unconscious or not. Despite no longer being in proximity he occupied her thoughts like an infestation, filling her usual clear mentality with confusing jumbles of worry and exhaustion. She was forced to return to the city to find anything that wasn't meat to sustain her, and every passing gaze filled her with increased irritation, until she could no longer stand being scrutinized by humans while in such deliberate thought. As she found her meal amongst the kinder Varden maidens and retreated towards the fringes of the forest to eat, she found herself speculating on how far the Varden would be able to go now, if Eragon were crippled again… The signs said he wasn't, and she prayed it were so.

Around midday, horses galloped out of the north, briefly alarming the Varden before the flags they bore showed messenger friends. They rode straight for Feinster, but the four figures that ran beside the horses veered off towards the tent where Saphira rested next to you, and Arya hurried from the wood edge to meet them.

"Asta esterní ono thelduin," the lead elf, a blonde-haired caster called Gaylön, spoke, as she approached. Saphira had once again taken up a defensive position in front of the tent, which slightly surprised her, but she hid all her feelings.

"Mor'ranr lifa unin hjarta onr."

The elf bowed and finished the greeting, his companions mirroring the gesture. "Un du evarínya ono varda. We come to protect Eragon-elda, at the consent of Blödhgram and the Lady Nasuada, Arya Dröttningu. How fare he?"

"He is unwell, but alive," Arya answered. "The herbalist has done all she is able to. He will survive, but he will bear many burdens. What tidings bring you from Belatona?"

"The Varden is entrenched," another elf answered her. "Nasuada informed the army of Eragon's injuries, though the severity was minimized in her statements and their hopes are high. The messengers yonder carried orders to begin moving remaining dispensable soldiers and workers north to the city so that they may ready for the winter season. Blödhgram informs that he and the others are staying to ensure that the Empire don't launch another sneak attack to catch the Varden by surprise and reclaim the city."

"If Murtagh returns," Arya said, "then the others have only fated themselves to die."

"With that understood, the Varden cannot be left unprotected," Gaylön replied, evenly and with appropriate emotion. "We are here to assist with Eragon-elda in any way we can. How may we work?"

"You cannot." Arya glanced at Saphira, who remained vehement at the entrance to the tent. "His condition is stabilized, but none of our magic will help in any way and he has not regained consciousness."

"We will remain guard over him then, until he awakens," Gaylön said, and even as he spoke the other elves moved to take up their protective positions around the tent. "Unless we may be of greater service."

Arya glanced towards Saphira, and the two caught each others' eye, a conversation passing between without any mental link. "I believe that would be acceptable. Do not allow any human to get close to him here. Until he recovers, only the herbalist can touch or observe him, save for any Saphira lets past."

"As you wish, Dröttningu."

One elf was dispatched by Gaylön to run back to Belatona with the tidings, and after he had gone and the remaining three taken up respective positions Arya entered the tent to inform Angela of the arrangement and change in plan. As the horns of the Varden marching out of Feinster once more towards Belatona sounded through the walls, Angela sighed and glanced down at Eragon. Arya couldn't help but do that same.

Angela patted him on the side of the face, gently. "A lot rests with this one, eh? I hope none of the Varden try to do anything rash like try to storm past Saphira to offer their prayers to his face. That would not only be foolish, but terribly horrible for human-dragon relations when she devours them whole."

"The elves will make sure they hold back," Arya replied.

"You should rest, my dear. You look more tired than an Urgal trying to conquer a rock."

"I will sleep when I am allowed the peace." The words slipped from her mouth without effort. Even though she was confused by their meaning, Arya didn't regret them.

* * *

><p>The day after the elven arrival, two days after the battle and Saphira's flight to save her rider, Nasuada rode in shortly after midday in a small caravan barely large enough to offer her any shred of protection. The excuse behind the journey was to return her to safety until Belatona was properly secured and fortified, but it was empty to all but human ears; Arya was not fooled by the clear deceit, nor did she suspect Nasuada to expect her to be. The leader of the Varden barely halted inside Feinster long enough to inform those who still remained of the good tidings of war and learn where Eragon was resting. No sooner had she entered and addressed the people than was her entourage briskly trotting towards Angela's tent.<p>

Nasuada was only admitted alone, leaving several uneasy men and Urgals behind amongst the horses. Arya's presence did little to calm them as their leader entered the tent, but Arya found she did not care. The two women ducked into the tent, leaving the Varden outside, and observed Eragon lying on the cot together.

"There is nothing more you can do?" Nasuada asked Angela, surveying the still-pale face resting below them. She lifted the sheets that protectively covered his back in order to see the magically implemented scars that hid the gashes rent into his back.

"His fever has gone down steadily throughout the past day," Angela answered, dipping water into Eragon's mouth laterally, bidding his reflexes to drink it for him. "His heart beats slower than conscious levels, which is a good sign. He improves on his own, yet he remains unconscious. Saphira cannot reach him, nor can Arya here. Nor can I, regretfully. He will wake on his own time, no matter what I do. When, however? I cannot say."

"If Murtagh were to attack tomorrow, we would be helpless," Nasuada murmured.

Saphira growled, and emitted her thoughts so that all of the tent occupants could hear. _Is that all you think of?_ she hissed in their minds. _Does his life mean nothing to you, is he only a soldier to be commanded and commended by his actions on the battlefield?_

Nasuada blinked, momentarily enraged. Arya watched her calm quickly, intelligently, before drawing herself up. "Of course not, Saphira, I meant no offense. I am merely concerned. Victory of two cities inside sizable Empire borders will have Galbatorix unsteady, if not frightened. He may seek to remedy his disadvantage, and if Murtagh has carried news of how badly Eragon is hurt he may try to take advantage of _our_ disadvantage. However, you speak truly and I ask for your forgiveness."

Saphira rumbled deep within her throat. _You shall have it, human, but remember that his life comes before all of yours, and if I must decide to flee and save him or stay and fight for you, I will always choose to flee._

Nasuada narrowed her eyes slightly. Arya felt the apprehension in the room, and glanced towards Saphira, who looked not in the slightest bristled by the altercation. At length, Nasuada drew a breath. "I understand. The life of the rider holds precedent over all."

_Aye, in all eyes but his own_, Saphira grunted, before turning towards Arya in the tent's extent. _Gaylön wishes audience. He has tidings for you, and he is waiting to enter. Shall I admit him?_

Arya, curious, gave her consent, and Saphira moved her body so that Gaylön could easily enter the tent, ducking under the flap of entrance unhindered. He rose to his full height again and bowed before them both. "Forgive my intrusion, my Lady, Dröttningu, but your guard wish me to convey to you, my Lady, that the troops from Surda have arrived in the south and are approaching the city as we speak."

"Good," Nasuada answered, bowing slightly in her turn. "Thank you, Master Elf. If you would, please tell my men that I will be returning to the city momentarily." Gaylön bowed and departed. Nasuada turned back to the two women. "Those men will need tents and space the city can't provide. That will also give us an excuse to keep Eragon more isolated than he is out here. If you lodge no complaint, Angela, I'd like to move Eragon into his own tent tonight, inside the encampment somewhere where he would not so easily be discovered while he heals. The elves may accompany him and guard him there, by all means, but I would feel safer if he were closer to protection should danger appear unforeseen. I will arrange a tent near him for you, Arya, as well, should you so desire it."

Arya nodded her meager gratitude. "My brethren will take care of moving him. I trust no others with being so delicate in his state as they."

"I agree," Angela said, stooping over the rider with more water for him to swallow.

Nasuada nodded. "Saphira? Any objections?"

_So long as there is space for me to remain by his side, I am content._

"Very well. I will begin settling the troops immediately, and hopefully we will be able to move him by nightfall. If there is any change to his condition before then, I would like to know about it, if you would. I will see to it that appropriate accommodations are prepared. Word will be sent when they were finished." She bid the herbalist and elf goodbye and departed from the tent.

* * *

><p>He did not wake that afternoon.<p>

The men from Surda situated themselves quickly, and white tents sprung up like baby rabbits around the edges of Feinster as the sun began to set that afternoon. Just before nightfall, a messenger boy ran to them, ready to lead them to the spot where Eragon's tent had been raised. Precariously, the rider's body was latched once more to Saphira and covered so that none would be able to see him. While the elves ran beneath her, directing her per the messenger's boys instructions, she flew into the camps and met them in the clearing that had been laid out for her.

Cautiously, the four of them lifted Eragon from her back and carried him into the bare tent, laying him on the soft mattress that had been laid out for him. The elves placed him carefully, and immediately went outside to assume their regular positions. Angela arrived after a few minutes and made sure he was properly resting. He was no more conscious than he had been two days before, however, and Arya was beginning to become frustrated.

Angela left saying, "He can't sleep forever. He'll wake up soon. Trust me."

The herbalist had been gone for minutes. Arya stood a number of paces away, her hands hanging lifelessly by her side. Saphira was resting, head on haunches, peaking through her gap into the tent. Arya's thoughts were quiet, for once in a few days, but she could not find coherent reason to move. The messenger was waiting to lead her to her own tent, but she remained, for reasons she couldn't identify. The feeling of restlessness was suddenly unnerving inside of her.

She crossed to Eragon's side, finding it consistently more difficult to breathe the closer she got to him. He was now lying on his back, clothed in fresh cloth and covered with a sheet. The incessant sweating that had blanketed him for days had finally ceased, and his mouth was slightly open, instinctive breaths flowing in and out, in and out as the wind rushed into and out of the tent. Angela had cleaned his horribly dirty hair and face, and, with the horrible cuts on his body covered, he appeared as though sleeping quietly and peacefully.

Conscious every second of Saphira watching her, Arya placed a hand on Eragon's brow and spoke in the Ancient Language. "Please be well. For me. Wake, and be stronger than you have ever been, stronger than the traitor that did this to you. For me, please rise, and you will be whole again."

Arya removed her hand and stepped back. She took a deep breath, and bade Saphira good night. She could feel sapphire eyes following her back as she exited through the main flap and allowed the messenger to lead her away, through a short maze of tents before they found hers two blocks south of Eragon's.

She pulled off her leather, worn from the moment she had latched it on as the sun rose on the day Eragon fell. She refused to admit, even to herself, how good it felt to be freed of the armors of war, after staring at its result for so many days. She cleansed her mind by meditating for a brief few minutes, and crawled beneath the sheets of the human bed that had been laid for her. Her eyes slid closed and her breath slowed as she reached for sleep to envelop her.

She waited.

Her eyes snapped open in the dark. The sun had long set. Her eyes could see clearly in the dark, though it did not disturb her, yet she saw nothing to impede upon her sleep. Her reflexes weren't tingling. She felt exhausted. For everything her mind and body were telling her, she should have been more than happy to fall asleep in the foreign bed, leagues from the front lines of the battle with the Empire and the nearest danger. She was perfectly alone, and her thoughts were relatively silent.

She tried again; her eyes snapped open, as if something were wrong.

Arya climbed from her bed and stood. Unbidden, body resisting the temptation to shake, she began to pace. The effort did nothing to force sleep upon her; it merely made her more restless.

There had been times in the past that she'd been confused, but never like this. There was no peace, no happiness, nothing no matter which path she chose except for constant anguish in one form or another. Her mind frustrated her constantly; she couldn't quench its voice, nor stomp out the soul that kept her heart beating. As she paced an endless rut into the ground in the dark, irritated and equally perplexed at the way her head was so easily fooling her, she faced her fears in the open, whatever they were, so she could be freed of the horrible burden that felt as if it were being slammed into her shoulders without reprieve.

She looped back and forth once across the ground of her shifting tent, glancing once at the bed that rested there. There was a brief moment's hesitation, and then she cursed and dressed quickly in garments laid out by the pitchers of the tent. In the quiet of the night, she stole from the tent.

There were few human sentries out and about, and it was with trivial ease that she hid herself in the shadows from them. In another place and time, she would have been shocked and disgusted by their ignorance and lack of discipline, but now she didn't care. Over the course of moments, she skirted between tents silently with the grace of forest predators. She wasn't quite sure she even knew where she was going until she arrived two blocks north of where her brief journey had started.

And then she understood.

With mentality borne only of years of practice and meticulous control, she masked her mental presence masterfully from her brethren guarding Eragon's tent. There were gaps in their watch, as one rested while the other two remained vigilant. Mental probes were designed to close these gaps and it was a matter of no consequence, but Arya, under her screen of invisibility, snuck through one of these easily. Gaylön wouldn't have detected her even if she stood three feet from him. Instead, she kept herself thin and stealthy, and slipped around the fringes of the tent until she could slip in through the entrance way, carefully and noiselessly opening and closing it around her.

The scene inside the tent was no different than when she had gone. Against the southern wall of the tent Eragon was motionless on the bed, lying face-up and looking none the peaceful for his comatose state. He lay undisturbed, the same as she'd left him not so long ago. In the dark, he appeared even more peaceful than he had in light, and his face hid the turmoil within so easily she wondered whether or not he were even fighting on the inside. His breathing was the only sign that he still lived. Arya found her ears clinging to the sound. For some reason, that and the rustling of the wind against the tent were rooting her to the spot. And it was peaceful.

Saphira rested against the northern opening, where her head rested on her haunches so that she could properly observe her rider until she herself fell into slumber. For all intents and purposes, Saphira appeared fast asleep.

Arya knew better. She imagined the dragon was having as difficulty sleeping as she was.

She crossed farther into the tent and, slowly, the sapphire scales glittered in the moonlight as the two females locked eyes. As she moved closer to Eragon Saphira lifted her head and touched Arya's mind. Arya continued undeterred until she stood by Eragon's side. Continually, she stared at both rider and dragon and wondered what they would think of her had they both been awake and observing the turmoil within. She didn't know what would have run through Eragon's mind; he was more of a mystery to her every day. All she did know was that at that moment there was only one place that she needed to be. Whether she enjoyed it or not, accepted it or not, it was by his side.

Saphira hummed in the night. Their gazes spun together, understanding passing between them. Bonds formed only over days of worry for the same entity crossed the empty air and connected them together without words.

_I do not know what else to do,_ Arya said simply.

Saphira nodded. Arya sat herself cross-legged, leaning her back against Eragon's bed. They spoke no more as the night properly descended around them.

* * *

><p>On the third morning, the first frost of the season descended upon Feinster.<p>

Nasuada called her for an audience during the day, and stated that she would not be returning to Belatona until Eragon had recovered in some form. "Without him, the Varden will only look on my presence there as a last resort to inspire greatness when really we have reduced to weakness. I will have to wait until I can honestly carry good news to return. Hopefully, there will be no need for my presence there for a good while."

"The snows will come, soon," Arya replied. "The cold will begin to penetrate the tents every night. Soldiers will find it most uncomfortable to defend themselves if the need should arise."

"That's why we planned Eragon's attack around possible windows for Empire advantage," Nasuada replied. She sighed. "I'm afraid we'll just have to wait and see what happens, whether or not he will recover in time to lead us onward or whether again we will have to change our plans and protect our ground."

Arya didn't oppose the notion, but the prospect of waiting wasn't one that sat well. The circumstances were quite skeptical and fleeting, however, and she chose to differ to Nasuada for the time being. At any rate, there would be no eventual justice if Eragon did not recover at all. That sudden thought made Arya most uncomfortable, and she stomped it from her mind before she could properly address its origins.

She returned to his tent that night, surprising and shocking herself. Unable to sleep in her own, no different than she had been the previous night, she felt wrong anywhere else. Again, Saphira and she endured the night in comfortable silence, sharing the worry that Eragon had yet to wake. Angela continued to be optimistic, but Arya continued to spend the countless hours of the night drifting between a rough dozing state and rude wakefulness on the floor of his tent, curling her arms around herself to protect herself from the vicious chill the cold season brought with it. If it wouldn't have been improper, considering her position, Arya imagined Nasuada may have spent the nights by her side. Perhaps. As uncomfortable as that would have been for both of them. Then again, she wasn't sure how much the Varden's leader invested in personal care.

On the fourth night, after another day of waiting and watching and fearing, she approached the tent to find Saphira's mind completely closed off.

Curious and suspicious, she hid herself quickly and moved past the guards hastily, anxious to find what had Saphira so on-edge. She crossed over the threshold to the tent to see where the blue dragon's eyes rested, and all at once halted all movement. Her eyes froze, her legs slammed still painfully. Her breath rested. Her heart stopped beating.

Eragon stood before her. His legs were spread shoulder-width apart, and he faced towards the wind, towards the west. His hands were clasped behind his back, his eyes were closed, and he held his body stiffly. Not a muscle shook, nor did he appear discomforted in the least by the injuries he had sustained. Saphira was staring straight into him, and if they were not having a detailed conversation Arya was sure they were enveloping themselves in each others' presence alone.

For minutes, she remained, frozen, waiting for a reaction from either Eragon or Saphira. None of the three moved, not a twist of the head, not a twitch of the hand. There were times when Arya could have almost sworn someone had cast a spell upon them to hold them in place. No words were spoken; she started to become afraid, completely irrationally. There was no reason for her to.

She began to take a step back, and Eragon's lips moved. "Don't."

She froze again, barely believing he'd spoken at all. Summoning her voice from the confines of her throat, she replied, "I would not honorably disturb peace and talk between a rider and dragon. I did not mean to disturb."

"From what she tells me, you haven't disturbed me yet," Eragon said. His voice was different, yet the same. It sounded older, yet holding the hint of the boy he still may have been. "I take it that you've forgiven me for my grave offense, as well."

"It is no longer of consequence," Arya said. Any anger had been replaced by fear long ago. "Are you all right? How do you feel?"

Eragon laughed quietly, dryly. "I feel stiffer than an oak in the dead of winter. My back feels as though it's been torn apart." He paused, and his eyes slowly opened. Arya imagined him realizing that his back _had_ been torn apart. "I'm hungry and tired. And confused. Saphira has only told me so much."

"You have been passed out for four days. I couldn't heal you in Belatona."

"Yes," Eragon replied. "Saphira told me about the flight here. It seems I've held the Varden up from many a great victory celebration." He sighed, and then didn't, almost as if he hadn't at all. His actions were quick, inconclusive, indecisive. "I appreciate your concern of my wellbeing. It wasn't necessary."

Arya ignored his statement. Answering to it would only lead to questions that would make their relationship uncomfortable. She may not even have known the answers. What concerned her, at the moment, was that he was completely unmoving. It would be expected for someone who had just been wakened from a sleep of days to be weak; he exhibited no trait she had ever attributed to weakness. Instead, he seemed to be tense, alert, fearful… of what she could not and doubted even he could say. He was on edge, though. His limbs didn't shake, but his consciousness was rampant on the air surrounding them and she could feel the slightest trembling in his mind.

She hesitated. Tentatively, she shuffled to the side, trying to enter his vision and moving ever slightly forward. She took another step forward, conscious of his gaze, looking anywhere except at her. They were so close that his breath touched the crest of her nose, spilling over her mind and rippling along her skin. She reached a counseling hand towards him and rested fingertips against his temple. "What ails you?"

Silence descended for moments, the two of them rooted in place and Saphira quietly surveying them both. Eragon sighed, and he turned his eyes unto her. Pure fear stared her in the face, and it was so extremely clear that she removed her hand from surprise and took a step back. Eragon sighed again, holding her gaze no matter how much she wanted to look away. "I remember his blade. I couldn't fight him. He knocked me down again and again. Every time I would get back up again he would look a little more confused, as though he didn't know what I was doing or if I actually scared him just a small bit. I don't even know why I did it… it would have been a lot easier to stay down and hope for him to spare me again…"

The words jarred her. She knew not why.

"Saphira came back… they flew away, I can't explain it, I didn't understand what was going on… and then there was a lot of confusion in the dark for a while. No pain. I couldn't understand why there was no pain." His hands unclasped and he began to run his fingers up his back. Arya watched as they made contact with the bumps of scar tissue that had molded over Murtagh's slashes. She watched as he flinched the moment he made contact with them.

"You are whole," she said, slightly unsure of why she had spoken.

He grimaced. "Yes, I am whole. I just have giant gashes in my back that I was too slow to prevent."

"That does not make you any less than you are—"

"They make me exactly what I am," Eragon cut her off, surprising her and perhaps surprising him. Nevertheless, he pressed on. "I only fear that my duties will be hindered by whatever I've just gone through. I'm afraid that my nightmares will follow me wherever I go. I'll have to ignore them. I'll have to be ready for everything by the morning."

"You have time to rest," Arya said. "Nasuada would not make even you march back into war after such an ordeal. You deserve an ample, allotted rest period where you need not concern yourself with battle."

"I need to go back," Eragon breathed, his eyes closed once again. "Murtagh will not wait for me to recover, so recovered I am. I have already made that decision. It is mine to uphold."

"Eragon," Arya whispered. They were too close for her comfort, but she allowed it in order to be heard. "Take care. The Varden has almost just lost its only hope. The winter is coming, we have achieved a victory, and the cold will shield us until you are properly prepared again."

"As long as Murtagh is alive, nothing can shield us."

Arya said nothing. Something was still horribly wrong, but she couldn't place it. It took her several long moments to realize that it didn't come from him. It wasn't originating in his body language or the way he presented himself or the fear in his eyes or the expression on his face. The sight of him stirred something inside of her, and it took her far too long to put her deepest thoughts into words.

"Do not rush back into the inferno that threatens to swallow you whole and refuses to spit you out. You have achieved an unlikely survival and may not get the same opportunity twice. Eragon, please. Do not throw away your life again because you are so focused on slaying every evil that has torn something away from you. Have patience. For me, please."

When she stopped talking, she was turned away from him, knowing it was one of few ways in which she could be successful in avoiding his gaze. She couldn't feel it upon her, but knew that Saphira was observing her every movement. Between the two of them, her actions had to be precise were she to hide everything she wanted to from them both, unsure of what that entitled herself.

Carefully, Eragon clearly weighed his words before responding. "I will speak to Nasuada at first light. With hope, she will not request my return." The slightest sliver of relief blended into Arya's mind. "However… if she asks for it, asks specifically for me to return to Belatona or attack the Empire or enter battle alone… I shall."

She tried to prevent her reaction from showing in any way, but found it hard to locate and utilize her voice. "We wait until the morning, then."

"Aye," Eragon said.

He crossed to his bed and laid his back flat. Grimacing only slightly, he managed to find a comfortable position and remain still. She doubted he actually expected rest, but he was at least making the greater effort. Saphira watched her furthermore, and she refused to move. Minutes passed, stretching ever longer, until finally the blue dragoness lowered her head once again and closed her eyes. Neither dragon nor rider, Arya took care to notice, made no gesture that she was meant to depart.

So much time passed by that they both may have been asleep. When her mind finally quieted to acknowledge the stiffness in her legs, she made to move. Contrary to the movement she desired her form to take, she found herself creeping closer to the bed. She reached the edge, observing Eragon briefly, before turning her back and lowering herself to lean against the bed's frame once again.

She sat stiffly, and there was a moment's pause. Eragon shifted once, and then turned on his side so that he faced her, their forms inches from contact. She felt the trickling of his breath sway her hair, and closed her eyes harshly against the explosion inside of her.

There was silence evermore. Arya was fairly certain neither of them slept that night.


	17. 16: Once The Wind Passes

**So… um… yeah.**

**Thanks to reviewers: ****RestrainedFreedom**** (x2), ****The Pro****, ****Marshall88****, ****DawnsRedemption****, ****Elvendiath****, Reader, Wolfyman123, Undbitr, ****Sable1212****, ****kmc995****, ****TheJasAlex**** and ****warrior of worlds****.**

**Disclaimer: Won't even bother.**

**16**

**Once The Wind Passes**

Nasuada gave a short yelp of surprise and burst from her chair when Eragon entered her tent the next morning. He had deliberately led his entourage at a brisk pace so that he could reach her before word of his recovery did. To _his _surprise, however, her attention swiveled directly from the officer she was speaking to until she rushed up and embraced him in full view of all of the others.

"Oh, Eragon, I was so worried—all of the Varden was worried!" She pulled back, holding him again at arm's length. He tried to hide his bewilderment, hopefully succeeding but not trusting himself. "Thank goodness you're all right!"

Eragon didn't even have time to return the embrace, and he was struggling to compose appropriate thoughts that attributed his mood and kept conversation within the confines of their relationship. He felt the amusement of Saphira and the elves radiating throughout the room, and it hindered his abilities substantially. "Thank for your concern, my Lady, but it was unnecessary. Angela's work on healing me is most exemplary. Always is."

"Hmmm, yes," Nasuada said, releasing her hold on Eragon's arms. To the assembled she hid her embarrassment well, but the rider could detect sheepishness in her expression as well at her enthusiasm to see him. "It seems the Varden just owes her more and more as the days go by. I'll have to keep her close at hand just to know she's still on our side."

Eragon wasn't sure if she was speaking defensively but played along anyway. "She certainly is a greater friend than enemy."

_She has never explicitly been our friend, you know,_ Saphira pointed out. _Although she has fought for us. Who knows where her true allegiances lie? She is so mysterious, perhaps we will never know._

_But she's healed my back twice, _Eragon replied, nudging her affectionately. _So she earns prestige in that category._

_If you say so, little one, _she grunted back. _I consider her as much of an enigma as an elf._

"In any case, your recovery is a burden lifted from my shoulders," Nasuada said, beaming. She motioned them forward, and sat back down in her chair as they moved with her. "How are you? Truly?"

Eragon glanced once at those present, the human commanders, Saphira, the elves, and Arya. It was a gesture for Nasuada, and signified his reluctance to answer in front of the group. "All things considered, I am well. By your command, I am ready for anything the Varden requires of me."

Nasuada nodded, and Eragon knew she understood. "Very well. I cannot tell you the hope you give me simply by appearing so rejuvenated. And now we can press our plans forward knowing you are healthy and with us again. The Varden's victory at Belatona—_our_ victory—is now complete." Eragon was surprised by how much she said, as if it were a political speech instead of a private appraisal of his return. He managed to keep his eyes from wandering amongst the occupants of the tent. "I'm sorry, gentlemen, but if you would excuse me, I would like a few moments alone with Eragon to discuss some things."

The human commanders hid their offense well, although Eragon felt it flourish in their minds. They bowed silently, however, and left without visible or audible complaint. The elves, likewise, offered their respects and filed from the tent. All but Arya. Saphira remained, clearly expecting to be included in any conversation that may pass between the two of them. Arya appeared unwilling to follow her brethren from the tent, but even when it was only she, Eragon, Nasuada and Saphira inside the leader of the Varden made no motion to dismiss her.

Nasuada's smile lessened slightly, but she still appeared pleased. "I am most glad to see you up and about again, Eragon. Tell me… how do you fare, truly?"

Eragon hesitated. He glanced at Arya, and then proceeded quickly to place protective wards around them so that they could not be eavesdropped upon. Only once he was sure their meeting was secret and private did he reply. "I'll bear scars in the future. I doubt they're even removable by magic, from the poison of the evil blade, but it doesn't matter. I am no different mentally than I was before, and I am only slightly stiff from the episode."

Arya touched his mind, and he felt admonishment pass between them. She thought he was lying. _Well, I suppose I could be without knowing it, right?_

_She has a right to chastise you for speaking such obvious falsities. You are not as well as you just told Nasuada, _Saphira said.

_But I'm well enough to do anything she puts me up to._

"I'm glad to hear that, too," Nasuada said. "If you're in the shape to move, I intend to return to Belatona as soon as we possibly can. I get restless being this far away from so many of our number, especially when our forces are already spread relatively thin."

"I am ready," Eragon replied. Arya said nothing, but he felt reproach creep through her subtle body language. "At your earliest convenience, my Lady, I will accompany you, unless you explicitly desire otherwise."

Nasuada's grin bolstered once more. "In that case, I would like to leave tomorrow."

Saphira bristled but remained still. Eragon hid his own reaction, although he felt little surprised and was more uneasy about her hastening back to the front rather than to be taken off-guard by her feelings and reasons. As Saphira and he exchanged each other's emotions, he guessed that even had he been more against the notion of returning to Belatona with such haste he wouldn't have spoken, due to his enduring position below her. Arya, however, had no such restraints.

"Do you truly think it wise to return so soon and so quickly, Lady Nasuada?" she said, her arched eyebrows furrowing into a scowl. "The Varden may interpret your movement as unnecessary and indecisive."

"I think that our victory and Eragon's return will more than satiate such concerns," Nasuada replied, undeterred in the least. "I'll have to make preparations immediately for the majority of the reinforcements to join us on the front, before the frosts become worse and the snow starts to arrive. With winter as a barrier, I'd rather have the Varden closer to the Empire than removed from its compass of movement."

Saphira grumbled deep in his mind, and Eragon acknowledged her. _Food will be difficult to come by in such bulk around Belatona. She expects to house eight thousand human soldiers in tents around a city while blizzards crash down upon their heads. I hope she understands the amount of risk she runs by moving so many of them and holding them there. The more we leave here, the easier it would be to overcome a shortage of supplies or food._

_I trust that she has thought this matter over substantially, _Eragon replied.

_For the Varden's sake, I hope she has. If there _is _a shortage, there is no solution that doesn't involve daring the winter storms in some way or another. I cannot simply hunt for all of them should the crops and pork go dry._

_The Empire's movements may not be as hindered as the Varden's, _Eragon said. _The elves have disassembled the bridges Murtagh made over the Jiet, but he could do it again and return with another army just the same. And they still have steady supply lines, roads, and trade routes that they can utilize to move soldiers as easily as goods._

_In that case, Belatona must be held, but with as few men as possible._

_She won't like that idea. She's already ignored Arya's advice as simple as she would of the Council of Elders. I cannot see her relinquishing on these arguments. And it would be tactical suicide to lessen our defense because of such concerns, as well._

_Perhaps. _Saphira grunted, a deep sound that emanated throughout Eragon's body. _Careful these considerations must be, lest the Varden lose the advantages they so easily gain. When next we meet Murtagh, we must be prepared as we have never been before. Our failure would mean the Varden's failure, which cannot be afforded._

Aware that Nasuada and Arya were silent, waiting for his thoughts, Eragon motioned towards his dragon and said aloud, "Saphira is concerned that there won't be enough rations and supplies to house so many soldiers in Belatona. There won't be enough room inside the city to house the entire army, which means that the majority of the troops will be in tents."

Nasuada nodded. "This is true. Nevertheless, these are the prices we must pay, and the men are prepared to make the sacrifice for the good of our victory."

"Their morale and skill will suffer because of it, however," Arya offered. Her eyes were fierce with opposition, though her voice was calm.

"I have confidence that they will make the adjustment honorably. Jörmunder has begun to quarter areas inside Belatona's walls where structures may be raised or soldiers housed that will not interfere with the residents' lives and properties. If we move quickly, the housing of the soldiers will be completely before the first snowfall."

_Arya does not think so, _Saphira said, though only to Eragon.

He shook his head at her. _Be still._

Eragon watched intently for Arya's reaction. He half-expected her to burst from her quiet demeanor to speak against Nasuada's plans, as she had done when Eragon had suggested the charging of Belatona. To his transparent surprise, she only nodded, albeit grudgingly. "I do not agree with these courses of actions, Lady, but you may do as you see the most beneficial."

Nasuada nodded, and Eragon imagined her quite relieved. "Thank you, Arya."

The elf inclined her head slightly. "If you'll excuse me, my Lady, I will inform my queen of these preparations so that she may plan accordingly with the elves."

"Of course."

Eragon tried to touch Arya's mind as she turned to leave, but found a wall of solid steel in the place of their usual reluctant yet lucid connection. She held his gaze for a terribly long moment as she swiveled to depart the tent, and her head shifted a fraction to the left, and then the right. Taking the gesture as the mystery that it was, he and Saphira allowed her to leave unchallenged.

Nasuada sighed once Arya was gone, grinning sardonically at Eragon. "I do hope I haven't offended her too much. If I go against her wishes any more than I already do, the elves may well withdraw their support and attack the capitol without me, trying to drag you from my side in the process."

"In that case," Eragon replied, mildly sharply, "it may prove most prudent to prevent displeasing her any more than is necessary. Without the elves, victory is hopeless."

Nasuada regarded him with distance for a moment, and he realized he may have unintentionally crossed the line of disrespect towards his liege. It was not without due cause; he had nearly insinuated that he would honor the call of the elves should they request him, an unjustified act of aggression. Long seconds passed, before Nasuada finally blinked and looked away, towards the walls of tent, out towards the sounds of the Varden at work in the fields and the grounds. "No, that would not be wise. Therefore, I believe it would be prudent if _we_ try more to appease Arya's concerns in the coming weeks."

Eragon endured the strained word without comment or question, aware the entire time of the emphasis Nasuada had placed upon it. "As you wish, my Lady. I trust we are following our predetermined plans as of now, remaining in Belatona and strengthening our forces until winter's end?"

"Yes," Nasuada answered. "I can't tell you how much seeing you should do for the soldiers in Belatona. They were outright devastated to learn that you had suffered injury. It was the first time since my father's funeral that I saw grown men weep openly." She fixed her gaze unto him. "They admire you greatly, Eragon."

He stirred in his pose, but refused to be baited into making a statement he would regret later. "I am a Rider, it is natural to admire me. I am nothing but a man, like themselves. It is Saphira who they should admire, but it seems I get more than my fair share of their doting as well. I wish it were not so, that they saw me as a comrade and a friend but nothing more."

"Nevertheless, you a great hero to them," Nasuada said. "Please keep that in mind. Your actions reflect upon how they perceive you, and despite near-fatal wounds they have fixed you in their minds as if you were a revered god."

"They would do well to realize otherwise," Eragon replied.

Nasuada's grins had disappeared, but she made no move or act to replace them. Eragon sensed that perhaps a verbal lashing of his attitude was at hand, but she merely regarded him strangely and changed the subject. "What think you of the Empire now? Our scouts and spies tell us that although they appear overwhelmed Galbatorix has them moving in patterns that betray nothing but confidence. I'd like to hear your take, as, no offense meant, you're the closest thing we have to seeing into his mind… what do you think their objective is?"

Eragon hesitated. _She asks a valid question, but would I answer the same as Galbatorix? _he wondered to Saphira.

_Answer the question as if you were him. That is all she wants of you._

He cleared his voice. "Protecting Urû'baen, first, foremost, and above all. As far as I've learned, he has nothing to fear as long as he can remain strong in his fortress in the dark city. Until we breach his walls and I challenge him on a level of strength that is my own and not his, he has no reason to be alarmed. Despite suffered victories, his forces and cities remain much more powerful and much better supplied than all of ours. We grow closer every day, but challenging him will not be easy."

As Nasuada deliberated over his words, Eragon said to Saphira, _And he has no reason not to lose confidence even when we _do _get close enough to make him uncomfortable. Especially if he can just send Murtagh out on the wind to deal me more blows. I could be defeated while he's watching all the way from his damned throne._

Saphira blinked at him with a large eye. _Think that way, and you will suffer the defeat you fear. You are stronger than that, little one._

_You're right, _Eragon sighed. _Sorry._

"Thank you," Nasuada said, drawing him back to the physical world. She had drawn herself up, her thoughts concluded. "I can't imagine it's very comfortable to have to compare yourself to him, but all of us are very grateful you make the sacrifice. Unless tidings come to us that make it necessary to alter our plans, we will depart for Belatona tomorrow."

"Understood."

"Leave me now. I will make arrangements. Should anything change or I require you I will send a messenger." Eragon bowed and turned to leave before her call caused him to turn back. "Eragon. I _am _overjoyed to see you healed."

Eragon tried to imitate her smile and conjured what was hopefully a convincing one, nodding and bowing once more before leaving the tent. His deception was obvious, but hopefully she took his attempts to be good-natured and didn't regard him with the same mysteriousness and careful eye that Arya now received. He climbed onto Saphira and for the first time in too long for their liking she darted into the sky.

_So. We return to Belatona._

_Aye_, Eragon said. _I don't know if I like it any better than Arya. I'm glad she didn't openly oppose Nasuada after the decision was made, though. Saved me a great deal of choice between whose side to take and whose side I owed._

_You owe nothing to anybody. Your training is complete, your oaths are fulfilled and your practices honored. Your fealty is the only thing connecting you to the ground now, and it is only a formality. Nasuada would not dare force you into a position against your will, for fear of alienating all others who support you._

_I've thought about that a decent amount. I wonder why she holds me to it, when I've grown so independent and my actions could so greatly reflect, as she would choose to say, negatively upon her. It's almost a liability._

_If she releases you, _Saphira replied, _then she will have absolutely no leverage over the last free rider whatsoever. It is the only thing still rooting you to the Varden._

Eragon grunted. _I have little other choice than to remain with the Varden. Leaving them would be to serve them to the Empire on a platter. If I left, the spellcasters would probably leave with me, and that course of action would force me to fight with the elves, which still wouldn't give me an advantage. Even if Arya remained, elven support would be lessened._

_And what if Arya chose to go with you?_

_Her position with the elves and within the Varden is too great for her to shirk duty just to accompany my choices._ Eragon recalled the sleepless night he had endured, her breath sinking in and out of existence only a few feet away. He sighed, relishing in the simultaneous pain and pleasure the memory brought him. _I'm just glad she's not mad at me anymore._

_Your feelings have escalated again—_

_I obviously can't help it, Saphira, _Eragon retorted. _I stand by my oath, let it go. She seems concerned for me as a friend, not as a rider, which is more than I could ever ask for. At least I know she won't slice my head off in the middle of the night, even if we're sleeping in the same tent._

Saphira didn't respond for a few moments, collecting her thoughts before speaking them to her partner-of-mind. _I must say, she has not seemed herself these past few days… She's not relaxed._

_She never relaxes, you know that._

Saphira bristled beneath him. Her flight path had carried them up and over Feinster, veering to the north, away from the city and towards the trees. The winds were calmer than in days past, but their icy nature made it more difficult for Eragon to breathe. _I mean something different. She seems intensely distracted, or on-edge. I told you she'd been coming to your tent and variably pacing and restlessly sitting. I have never seen her so unable to be still. It's as if something has thrown her peace of mind away._

_I was hurt, seriously hurt. That's enough to cause any free elf—any elf, for that matter—to be worried._

Saphira hummed. _Perhaps. I simply feel as if something that you and I could not understand has affected her in some way. It worries me. I wish she would trust us enough to tell us of what troubles her._

_You sound like me_, Eragon lamented. _You seem to be worrying me with this, though. I'll watch her closer. Maybe she'll open up with whatever it is._

_Considering you have just settled a turbulent period with her, I find that difficult to conceive. Tread lightly with whatever attempts you make, and be aware of the wrath on the opposite end of your prod._

They flew in comfortable silence for some moments, simply enjoying the time they could spend together on the wind. Eragon tried to make himself relax, but found his muscles incredibly tense, as if preparing him for some collision he couldn't see coming. Despite his best efforts, he could not undo the tightness completely surrounding his torso and limbs. The wind buffeting his face only frustrated him more as he failed to undo the uncomfortable vice seizing his body, completely unlikely a seizure yet equally as infuriating.

Over time, Saphira grumbled beneath him. _Little one, I must hunt. I have gone too long without food._

Eragon, with a start, realized that, not having left his side once during his unconscious ordeal, she hadn't hunted since before their siege of Belatona. _I'm sorry, I didn't realize… I'm amazed you could go that long without eating. You should've gone sooner._

_I could not leave you in that condition, _she replied. _Shall I return you to the Varden?_

Eragon considered it only briefly, deciding that he didn't want to run into anyone, especially human, at the moment. _No, I think I'll remain away from the tents for awhile. Can you put me down in the forest?_

_Of course._

She glided into a clearing by a stream, and cast him down quickly. He watched her sail back above the treetops and quickly out of his view towards deeper woods, off north closer to the Spine, where her hunt would be more productive and satisfying. He wondered if the sense of separation he felt from her now compared at all with that which he had put her through under his unconscious spell.

Trying to shake off unpleasant thoughts, he stripped himself and bathed in the stream, relishing in the icy chill of the water before protecting a pocket of it from the current and warming it with magic. He soaked himself thoroughly, forcibly trying to release the tension in his body before he rose from the river and dried himself, none the better for the soak but for his hygiene. He splashed water into his rough hair, staring down at his reflection in the rushing pool as the cold liquid soaked into his skin.

He clothed himself again below the waist and poised himself on the bank between the water and the forest. With careful movements, straining to loosen himself and ignore the discomfort the movements put him through, he began to perform the Rimgar. It was difficult at first, but with each pose he struck with clarity, he felt more and more of his locked muscles give way to relaxation. Despite the intricacy thrown into the equation by his injuries, he was not seized by the seizures that had rocked his body as a result of Durza's strike, which comforted him slightly. _At least I can't accidentally overexert myself, _he reasoned.

He completed the first stage and proceeded to the second fluidly, without pause. Eventually, the relaxation that had only reluctantly entered his body spread in its entirety throughout his muscles. To his dismay, his back seemed irreparably stiff, inhibiting his flexibility. He countered it with other body movements to compensate, but the effect was there. He pushed it from his mind, but it caused him a great deal of mental anguish. He had been scarred and hindered by his failure at Murtagh's hand, and it shamed him.

He completed the second level without incident and moved unto the third, straining himself slightly through moves he had completed before but now found somewhat difficult. He found himself panting and sweating heavily by the time he eased into the last movement, and the second he was finished and returned himself to a relaxed, standing pose he kicked the dirt in disgust.

It was a trivial matter, but his inability to complete it infuriated him. He calmed himself hastily, reminding his mind that anger did little good once it took hold. Multiple splashes of water to the face helped him clarify his thoughts again, and he drank before putting on the rest of clothes and setting off at a comfortable walk into the forest.

He spent a great deal of time trekking randomly back towards Feinster, never in a straight path, analyzing his memories of Arya's recent actions and contemplating Saphira's shared thoughts. He considered Belatona and the battles, and above all tried to cleanse his mind completely. By the time he returned to the enclosure of tents, the sun was descending in the west and a great portion of the tents were being taken down once again.

Eragon ate and commenced with preparing himself the journey, simple as that was. The elves were prepared, as always, and he ordered they get rest, after a number of days watching over him without respite. Their protests were deflected and they eventually succumbed, only after Ancient Language oaths were sworn that they would accompany Eragon and Nasuada back to Belatona regardless of their adherence to rest.

Saphira returned late, full and content, landing amongst the tents to the continued delight and admiration of the Varden's people. They kept their respectful distance, as always, but she made her customary show for them before situating herself in the tent opening as she had on most of the previous nights. As the sun disappeared over the horizon, rider and dragon locked eyes.

_How went the hunt?_ Eragon asked, tying his small bundle of items together and attaching it to Saphira's saddle, which he brought to and set down by her side.

_Productively, _she rumbled, licking her chops and eyeing him keenly. _A black bear and I fought over a herd of deer. I won, for the most part._

Eragon grunted, returning to his bed. With no small amount of relish, he collapsed gratefully against the mattress and closed his eyes. _I hope you didn't kill the poor beast. Hardly a fair contest._

_It's not my fault it didn't have wings._ Saphira proceeded to lick her claws clean of earth and meal while Eragon eyed her with irony. _Have you spoken to Arya since I left? Or anyone for that matter._

_Other than the spellcasters, no, _Eragon replied. _I wasn't in a public mood, so I just hid myself away in the forest. _He sent her images of his Rimgar performance and walk, though he shielded most of his frustration and hoped she didn't delve too far into his thoughts. _I was hoping we would be able to speak with her before we leave tomorrow, but it doesn't look as if I'll get the opportunity. Perhaps we'll get a free moment where I can question her, if she's not too unreadable. Last I knew she was contacting Islanzadi, but that was hours ago._

_Indeed._ Saphira proceeded to yawn, and set her face down. _It feels excellent to be able to rest in relative serenity. _Eragon flinched at her words, and Saphira quickly realized what she had said. _I did not mean that your situation was your fault, little one. What I meant was—_

_I know, Saphira, _Eragon said. _Don't worry about it. I would feel the same way if you were out for days._

She glanced towards him again and he sensed her reply coming when a shadow descended on the tent's threshold. Startled, Eragon sat up, as he hadn't sensed a presence near them and the appearance was both unexpected and suspicious. He visibly relaxed when the shadow developed into a lightly-clad elf. Arya entered the tent silently, without motion to warn them of her entrance, and stood straight the moment she had entered.

Eragon sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He made to make the elven gesture of greeting, but before he could Arya cut him off, striking formality from their conversation. "My tent was removed."

The statement was simple, yet almost completely confusing. Eragon took a full minute to sink it in, while trying to digest the neutral expression sitting on her face and gleaning all he could from it. As it occurred to Saphira across the room, the subtle insinuation arrived in his mind, and he resisted the temptation to raise his eyebrows in surprise. He stood quickly, leaving the bed behind. "I was going to sleep with Saphira tonight. You can use the bed."

She didn't protest, which in itself surprised Eragon. The fact that she nodded and crossed to the bed even as he trod towards his partner-of-mind worried him. He dared not ask what troubled her, for he feared he would hate the answer, in some form or another. So, instead, no words passed between them as Saphira opened a wing and he wedged himself comfortably into her side. Arya crossed to his bed and lied down without questioning his words or refusing them.

_Most interesting, _Saphira spoke, closing off their minds as tightly as they could, to all but each other.

_Whatever you were saying about her, _Eragon said, staring into the growing darkness towards his bed, every second bringing night closer, _you were completely right. Whatever's wrong, it's got her so off-guard that she accepted my bed for the evening. She would usually insist on the ground._

_Yes._

Eragon descended farther into Saphira, closing his eyes and blocking out the confusing world's images as Arya turned on her side, facing away from them. Her breathing became inaudible over Saphira's heartbeat, and she became a wraith to his consciousness. _I wonder what she dreams of at night. If only she could sleep without dreams._

_I expect her to get as much sleep tonight as she did last night…_

Eragon grimaced. _That makes three of us._

_I will watch over her. If anything happens, if she stirs or cries out, I will awaken you immediately._

_You need sleep, too._

_I am considerably better rested than you think I am. _Saphira lifted her wing just enough so she could sneak her tongue into the gap and lick Eragon across the face. _You need far more sleep than I, little one. Now sleep. I will make sure the elf has as comfortable of a night as she possibly can._

_I missed you, Saphira._

_And I you. Go._

Eragon's last thought of wakefulness was how much he wished he could rest beside Arya, making sure she was fine by listening to her breath and soothing away her worries. He dreamt of an unknown setting, conversations never spoken yet long forgotten, rain and warmth and distant whispers, echoed across a void and calling to him from the other side of eternity.


	18. 17: Preemptive Endgame

**So… a review really angered me. REALLY angered me. Which is not okay, because it involved criticism. Criticism is good; it lets me know whether or not my writing sucks. Therefore, I apologize for my anger and apologize for the mistakes I make in my writing. I hope that all of you, my readers, continue to look past my misgivings and errors and enjoy the story as I write it, while I write it hopefully as well as I can so that you enjoy it. I must say: while I don't agree with all the criticism, in the end I thank the reviewer, because, although their interpretations of my characters will not change my writing, it let me know that I do not fool everyone with this story, and that I still have a **_**long **_**way to go as a writer.**

**On another note, this is the part of the story in which many people will raise their eyebrows and send me hate statements. Probably. Hope you enjoy!**

**Thanks to reviewers: ****thegayperson****, ****ElvenFriend2.0****, ****RachelDJack****, ****The Meepsta****, ****Elvendiath****, ****Addictedforlife****, ****Sable1212****, xxx, eternal, ****warrior of worlds**** and ****kmc995****.**

**Disclaimer: As pointed out by reviewers, I'm obviously not him…**

**17**

**Pre-emptive Endgame**

The Varden greeted them with thunderous applause and roars as Saphira touched down outside Belatona's gate, Nasuada beaming beside them. Teams of soldiers and workers rushed forth from the gate and created a swarming crowd that rushed around them both, trying to touch and breathe next to Saphira's flank. The elves rushed to make sure Eragon was covered on all sides by guard, but there was no need. Nothing except well-wishers surrounded them.

"People of the Varden!" Nasuada boomed as Eragon continually accepted token after token of wellbeing from the flustering, giddy men. "Our Rider has returned, but that is no excuse to molest a man who has just recovered from grievous injury! Clear the way for Saphira immediately! We enter the city victorious today!"

Even as the men parted, a roar of triumph rippled like a wave throughout the crowd. Eragon plastered on a half-smile to complement the other genuine half and raised a fist signaling his own happiness towards the crowd. The elves didn't leave Saphira's side as she padded into the city, leaving as many cheers behind as there were to the sides and fore. Nasuada shuffled along with them atop her steed as best she could, dragging her entire company of bodyguards with them. Their procession moved quickly into the city, and Nasuada moved forward to lead Eragon and the elves to the governor's house.

Amidst continued cheers, Nasuada rode close enough to Saphira's side to explain their course of action in a loud voice. "The governor surrendered the city on the terms that we would allow the citizens to continue their lives unhindered by our presence. We reached a compromise on the matter, and he's agreed to nonaggression. Jörmunder has been commanding things from a part of his home, by the governor's personal offer. We'll be meeting there later to discuss a number of items. The governor won't be present, so I'll have to introduce you another time."

"What will the meeting encompass?" Eragon asked. "There is no need for a war council again, not until we have fully settled here."

"I just want to go over some things," Nasuada answered. "It won't be many people and hopefully it won't take too long, but I would like to be apprised of all aspects of our situation and begin to prepare for whatever we'll need to both survive the winter and mount ourselves for battle again when spring arrives. If you would like to avoid meeting and debating bureaucrats, you can visit with your admirers for a few hours until I call for session."

Eragon grimaced and grinned wryly. "That would be most appreciated."

Nasuada nodded, as the crowds began to thin out and allow them their passage more freely. They all stopped, and Nasuada swung her steed around to face Eragon. "Very good. I'll send messengers to find you when it is time."

"Thank you, my Lady," Eragon said. He bowed, and Nasuada's entourage broke off from Eragon and the elves and began marching off to the castle. In her wake, dozens more citizens and Varden soldiers rushed forward to greet him, and as he jumped nimbly off of Saphira they assaulted him with their praises. Hands were thrust forward for him to shake, pats were placed on his back. In the rush, he watched Arya slip quietly away from Saphira to follow Nasuada. Gladen and the other elven guards stood their ground and looked only inches away from ripping the supporters away from the rider.

It was several minutes before Eragon was able to slip from the throngs of the Varden down a side street. Saphira took to the sky without him, bounding upwards to distract the crowd while her rider ran. The elves moved separately in much the same manner, disappearing before the crowd could discern what had happened. Eragon quickly told Gaylön through their minds to go with Arya to the castle and meet up again with Blodhgram, which the elf reluctantly agreed to. Skirting through dirty alleys and jumping across main streets, Eragon finally breathed a sigh of relief that he was relatively alone once again.

_Sometimes I wish they wouldn't do that, _he told Saphira.

_I wonder what Nasuada wants with that meeting, _she replied.

_As do I. I'm sorry you had to take off like that. I doubt you'll be able to land at all inside the city without attracting a lot of attention. Before nightfall, at least. _

_There are annoying to me as they are to you. I would rather not be near them when they are feeling so prosperous and gay. _She snorted, releasing a brief plume of fire from her nostrils into the air a mile above his head. _I imagine you'll be going to see Roran, then. _

_Yes, _Eragon replied. _I'm sorry you can't come along._

_I'll find somewhere outside the city and doze for a while. I'll stay within range of our link, so it shouldn't matter anyway. Even as it is, I suppose I won't be able to attend the meeting without seeing it through you mind._

_Someday we'll rebuild every city so that it accommodates dragons as easy as it ever would for humans._

She rumbled with equal pleasure and foreboding at the presumptions and results of such thoughts before shaking off the feelings. He felt the turbulent emotions inside of her briefly surface and then submerge themselves back beneath her stronger mental walls. _Someday, little one. But not today. Roran and his mate have acquired residence at an empty apartment dorm in the northeast of the city._

_Thanks._

He rushed through the streets fleetingly, giving no one a chance to realize he was there before he had moved on. Belatona was far more lustrous than Feinster. Its streets were made of solid stone, and buildings teaming with both shops and homes lined practically every corner and avenue. The people themselves even appeared far happier, although they still visibly regarded the members of the Varden they now coexisted with under suspicion at all times. Such things were to be expected, however, and it didn't seem as if anyone felt any different because of it.

In little time at all, with Saphira's direction and his own mind as a guide, he located Roran's newest home. Avoiding all other souls, he waited until the street was as clear as it could possibly be, clear of any who would cause him grief by possibly recognizing him, and knocked on the outside door to the rundown apartment.

Two moments passed before the door creaked open slowly. Katrina peaked out from the crack and jumped slightly when she saw through it was. Quietly, she opened the door wide and gestured Eragon inside. After closing the door, she quickly hugged him and motioned towards one of the many doorways that led off of the main sitting room where they stood. A kitchen was visible, as was a large room with an empty bath. The door Katrina motioned to was shut. "He's sleeping," she explained in a whisper, smiling at Eragon.

No sooner had she spoken when the door swung open. Roran, quickly buttoning up a linen shirt, grinned immediately as he saw Eragon. "Not anymore," he said, referencing Katrina's words. He stepped forward and the two cousins clasped arms, grinning at each other. "We were terribly worried. Nasuada said you were hurt, but we didn't know how badly. Are you…"

"I'm fine," Eragon replied. He hoped his smile hadn't grown strained, but the fresh mental reminder of the scratches coating his back, not to mention the constant physical stiffness, put a certain edge to his mood that brooded negatively. "I'm extremely relieved we were able to secure Belatona, even after our newest unexpected opponents."

"I didn't even get out of the city in time to fight on the plains," Roran said. Katrina bowed her head and walked sternly into the kitchen. Roran clearly gave the action no mind. "When Nasuada announced Saphira was flying back to Feinster with you… we all assumed the worst."

"I've got so much fate and destiny left in me," Eragon replied jokingly, "that the gods can't afford to kill me yet. I'd leave so much undone they'd spend the next century trying to fix what I didn't complete."

Roran chuckled, receiving the joke in good nature. They sat down at the table of the room, and began to exchange questions, a form of small talk that was almost foreign to Eragon amid so much familiarity and turmoil the war brought. When they had grown up together, the two had never needed small talk; they were always with each other, and so all news was old news in their lives. Eragon regretted and almost felt guilty that there were so many unknown things Roran could relay to him without him recognizing their significance. It was yet another sign that he was growing uncomfortably part—while the distance was inevitable and in some cases desired—from his old life.

As the two men spoke as the brothers they were, Katrina returned with warm tea. Eragon accepted only out of courtesy, while Roran declined out of taste. His wife placed the tray down on the table before them and seated herself at the end, hands clasped in lap with a grim smile coated across her face.

Roran reached below the table, a gesture supposed to be hidden from Eragon, and took Katrina's hand in his own. "We're safe here," he said to her, and Eragon understood.

The smile disappeared, and her eyes darted to Roran before jumping to the tabletop. "Yes, we are safe here."

Roran glanced toward Eragon and grimaced. Eragon nodded his understanding without seeming uncomfortable and quickly endeavored to change the subject. He was successful, and the two men launched into a series of non-violent discussion topics that sometimes prompted Katrina to join them in their words. Eragon asked them about their child, and felt her stomach for the unborn baby's kick. Roran's smile was more genuine than his cousin had seen in many a day when he took his wife into his arms and kissed her forehead, as she placed both hands protectively over her abdomen.

Eragon was content to sit there, with the two happiest people he had seen beneath Galbatorix' rule, until the winter was over and he had to march out once more. Saphira, however, broke through his veil of ease a number of hours after his arrival. _The meeting is about to begin._

_How did you find out? _Eragon said.

_Arya touched me with her mind. We are desired at the governor's house. _She sent him an image of her gliding towards the streets to get him. _If you take any longer in your relaxation, we will be late. _Her voice softened considerably. _It _is _good to see you relax._

_I'll be right there._

Unbidden, he stood. "My apologies. Nasuada has called for a council and Saphira and I must be present. Are you not coming as well, Roran?"

Roran frowned. "I was unaware. She has not sent for me."

Eragon raised an eyebrow and surveyed the couple but simply shrugged instead. "Perhaps it is merely between myself, her, and the governor, or something of that nature. In any case, forgive me, but I must most hastily take my leave. Thank you for the tea, and the talk. It meant a lot after the past week."

"Thank _you_ for coming to see us, and do so again whenever you wish," Katrina said, and Roran nodded. She shuffled to Eragon and kissed him on the cheek before picking up the tea and returning to the kitchen. Roran watched her go with affection, before turning back to his cousin.

"She really hates this war," he said. "I have to fight, but if for one second I didn't… well, you and I have already had that discussion. Suffice it to say, the moment Galbatorix is dead I swear to you I'm setting down my weapons and going back to rebuild the farm again in Carvahall."

"Spoken true like a son of Garrow," Eragon said. Roran smiled, and the two cousins clasped arms once more. No farewell was spoken, as they knew they would meet again within a brief period of time, no doubt, and Eragon quickly entered the streets again, where Saphira was waiting patiently for him.

Together, they soared quickly above Belatona, amid gawks and cries of admiration and bewilderment from below them, shooting quickly across the city to the governor's home near the center. Saphira looped once around as she lowered her altitude before touching down outside of the front gates, inside the protective walls of the courtyard. As they did so, Arya crossed the cobblestone walkway that extended from the garden towards the main door, and she greeted Eragon in traditional custom.

"It's a comfort to know I'm not alone in this council," Eragon said to the elf.

"Indeed," Arya replied. Eragon watched as her lips quirked, moving slightly upward until a grin had appeared. He realized that she was laughing at him at the same moment that he realized it was the first time he'd seen her smile since their night shared on the ridge in Feinster, days before the Varden's march.

"What?" he said.

Arya shook her head, moving past him and clearly trying to suppress the grin. "It is nothing."

Confused, Eragon glanced at Saphira. _What was that?_

To his annoyance, he found Saphira grinning at him as well, and could feel the amusement Arya apparently shared leaking through to him. _Katrina's powder is on your cheek._

He felt at his face, and upon withdrawing his face confirmed that it was true. _So?_

_So,_ Saphira said, and her laughter spilled forth until it encompassed her entire mind. _It appears as though you've spent the past few hours Nasuada allotted to you in the company of a mistress. Mildly amusing._

Eragon stared at her with perplexed horror. _Arya would never think such things._

_True, and therein lies the humor._

Shaking his head, Eragon stalked past her laughing form, pushing into the governor's house after the elf. Still grinning, she was waiting for him in the main entranceway landing, and led him up an adjacent staircase in the wide hall, which was adorned with armor and trophies and grand carpets he had only before seen in the richest halls of the dwarves. He observed the many trinkets and luxuries with distaste as various servants and sentries bid him greeting. Arya led him forward through a brief number of long, winding hallways, each with more adornment than the last, until finally they reached a large set of wooden double doors set into the end of the hall. Two guards stood on each side. Arya spoke what was seemingly a codeword to one of them, and the other opened the doors wide for them to enter. Both sentries murmured their respects for Eragon as he passed.

They entered a large study. Book shelves covered all of the walls, every last foot of them stacked with text. A fireplace adorned one wall, while a large desk sat before another. Comfortable chairs were laid out on either side, and in the center was a medium-sized table set with eight chairs.

Nasuada sat at the head of the table, and the two seats immediately to her left were empty. Blodhgram stood behind the third down, while a well-dressed man Eragon didn't recognize and assumed was the governor sat opposite Nasuada. Jörmunder sat immediately to Nasuada's right, next to Nar Garzhvog. On the opposite side of the hulking Kull was the dwarf Kargan, who had accompanied Eragon and the Varden's leader to Belatona. The governor was staring at Garzhvog with clear terror, as if he expected the Urgal to break out any moment into a rampant tirade.

_I guess I'll have to act as your voice and ears on this one, Saphira._

Saphira groaned in annoyance, but the lack of alternative left no choice in the matter. _Make sure they know that I'm here before they speak._

Nasuada stood upon their entry, and everyone at the table save for Garzhvog followed their suit—Eragon didn't take offense, as he was sure the Urgal did so only because Kull customs didn't follow the rider's own and also because his chair may not survive the occurrence. Nasuada cleared her throat and said, "Excellent. We can begin now. Eragon, it's my pleasure to introduce Warren Ramron, governor of Belatona."

"It's an honor, my lord," Eragon said, shaking Ramron's hand.

"Your reputation precedes you, Rider," Ramron said. His demeanor was careful, precise and cautious. He was clearly fearful of more than just the Nar in the room, and Eragon couldn't blame him. The Varden, by tales, were essentially as bad as tyrants, and there was little trust unenforced by military in the room.

"Thank you, sir. As long as I am alive, I strive to protect your people from the tyranny of the dark king."

"Please, if you'll all be seated, we may begin," Nasuada said. The company sat back down, with Blodhgram seemingly uneasily taking his own seat. Eragon was mildly surprised to see the furry elf present, but didn't address the matter aloud. Arya crossed to the seat directly next to her brethren, and Eragon moved to the seat directly to Nasuada's left.

Once they were all situated, Nasuada beamed at them all and said, "Friends, we have struck a great victory for freedom. Belatona was rid of the Empire's hold with the cooperation of the governor and the determination of the Varden. As winter closes down upon us, we have secured an invaluable foothold to where we now prepare to attack come the spring, when all of our efforts of decades will play to their strengths. We have a long road yet to go, but today we sit closer to our goals than we have ever been, ever since the Fall of the Riders, ever since Galbatorix unrightfully took the throne of Alagaësia.

"I've invited Master Blodhgram to council with us, as he and the elves tasked to Eragon were invaluable in the siege of this city. With his added wisdom, I believe we will be even better equipped to take on the Empire's renewed strike after Galbatorix has the cold season to renew his battery. Once the dwarves join us again, as they will at the winter's first allowance, while the elves attack relentlessly from the north, our armies will become a force that the dark king has never before had to contend with.

"Our short-term objective now is to survive the winter in comfort. Governor Ramron has already agreed to focus a number of city resources unto the feeding of our troops, and so hopefully meals will not present a problem. A greater difficulty is shelter. The unused buildings in the city are not nearly enough to support our troops, nor may there be sufficient space to erect additional barracks for the men, nor the supplies to construct such barracks. I have already heeded advice and decided that we will not invade the homes of citizens to house our soldiers, therefore we find ourselves in need of options. Are there any thoughts?"

A moment of silence passed, and then Jörmunder cleared his throat. "The men could erect their tents in the more narrow streets of the city. It would not prove much shelter against the snowfall or more powerful storms but it would be preferable to be exposed to the wind beyond the city limits."

"That may make it difficult for movement of the citizens, assuming they continue to go about their daily lives," Nasuada acknowledged.

"And the tents' proximity and space limitations would prevent the use of fires for warmth," Arya volunteered. "Unless another artificial source of heat were discerned, I believe that option would be impractical."

"Du Vrangr Gata could attempt to speed and enhance construction with magic," Eragon said. "Although there would be limitations by supplies, there as well, and magical ability. I'm sure Master Elf and the other spellcasters could be of assistance, but that is a route that may only get the Varden so far. Again, we may run out of materials or space and be none the better off."

"Would it be feasible," Jörmunder began, "to commission only a larger residence building or a few of them for our quartering? The space requirements would be greatly minimized from that of normal life. We could fit as many as five or ten men to where one person lives now."

"The lives of citizens must not be compromised for this," the governor warned. His voice was wary, but he spoke with conviction. Eragon admired the man, for speaking against an entire party that held all power and wasn't necessarily on his side.

Nasuada came to his aid with a nod. "Agreed, we will not disrupt the city's habits in any way. This brings us to another issue. Our men will be forced to train beyond the city in the winter, for lack of otherwise proper space. Otherwise, their skills will have to be blunted by the lack of action and I fear it will take us too much time to prepare ourselves once more for attack once the snow melts."

"That should be less difficult," Eragon said, while Jörmunder nodded at his words. "Except for requiring shelter in the case of high winds or storms, it should be fairly simple if every regiment cleared an area for themselves to use for training. I did it with my teacher every day when I first began to learn my skills. Albeit, we were forested, but the notion is relatively the same and almost as simple to enact."

"My rams will need no special actions, nor will we require special shelter," Nar Garzhvog growled, causing the governor to jump. "We train all seasons, and are completely prepared for anything the wind attacks with, Nightstalker."

"Perhaps so," Nasuada said. "However, I would feel more comfortable if these were definitively proven ideas instead of conjecture. There is a lack of historical situations we may reference of similarity."

The meeting progressed over an hour. Nasuada laid out each possible difficulty or flaw in their arrangements and the eight of them addressed it, brainstorming for solutions and laying out the basic ideas for each passage. As arguments began to develop and the articles of discussion became more flimsy, Eragon began to tire. His reiterations to Saphira became sketchier and sketchier as fatigue took them all. Finally, Nasuada called the meeting to an end and dismissed them all.

It was late by this time, and Eragon was led to a tent that had been situated for him amongst the newest arrivals of the Varden beyond the city limits. A warm bath had been left for him, which he indulged in only briefly. He shaved with magic and shed his hard-worn clothes as Saphira nestled against the side of his tent closest to the bed.

_Nasuada was right, Saphira, _Eragon said. _We've achieved a great victory. We're more than one step closer to reaching the capitol and ending Galbatorix, avenging our masters and fulfilling the objectives that Brom and the elves laid before us. What do you think of that?_

_I think only productively. But why do I sense something other than hope inside of you? _He felt her reach inside of his mind for his emotions, something she did unbidden and he had little ability to block without throwing her forthright from his mind. She wrapped her consciousness around his feelings and tore them to the front of his mind, speaking as she did so. _You must cease to worry about strength, little one. When the time comes, you will be as strong as you need to be. Worrying will not help you in any way._

_I wasn't strong enough when I faced Murtagh._

_And did you perish? No._

_That's not the point._

_Nevertheless, it is time for you to sleep, not worry about strength and other such worthless things. Make sure you dream of pleasant things tonight, instead of conjuring up all the mistakes you could possibly make every second of every day. Good night._

She withdrew and spoke no more. He let her go, eager to be alone in his thoughts for a precious few moments. Agreeing with her, he closed his eyes and let his mind roam freely throughout itself.

To his regret, but not surprise, Arya didn't come to his tent that night.

* * *

><p>Saphira had yet to wake when he rose in the morning. He felt horrible, stiff and sore, and stretching his back did nothing to alleviate the discomfort. He surveyed himself in the full-length mirror that came with his tent, and found with dismay that he even moved, seemingly, with sluggishness he hadn't possessed before.<p>

He left his tent and ran—sprinted—around the length of Belatona. Elven speed allowed him to do it in incredibly small amounts of time, but he moved so fast that despite his endurance he was still doubled over with breath and sweating heavily when he was finished overlooking the ever-stretching plains, just as he had hoped to be. Slow was weak, and weak he couldn't be.

Giving himself little time to rest, he quickly began to perform the Rimgar, his movements precise but fluid. The first stage passed less easily than before, and his back refused to loosen at all. The second stage was little better, and a rather large amount of strain was forced unto all parts of his body. Such clear incompetence disgusted him, but he persevered without pause. He managed to complete the second stage without incident.

He proceeded unto the third and moved throughout the stages with rhythm and determination. He refused to be inhibited by his body, and curved his form in which ways his mind demanded he be. Every twist, every contortion was a grotesque effort now, but he would not accept failure where he knew he could succeed. As he grew closer to finishing the third stage he placed forth all of his combined concentration in order to force his every fiber to cooperate with his emotions, until finally, his body caked in sweat and shaking a decent amount, he lower his body to a relaxed stage and opened his mind.

A cloud of unintelligibility met his advance towards the unconscious world. Power emanated from the cloud, blocking his motions and rebuking them outright, prompting him to focus farther onto the phenomenon he couldn't identify. He found it painless but completely impregnable, and in the absence of knowledge he furrowed his brows and opened his eyes to discover what was creating such a blank spot upon his consciousness.

He flinched and felt his heart ram to standstill.

Thorn rested amid the plains not a mile away, his body pressing into the grass, haunches forward in a sitting position. Across the distance, Eragon could see Murtagh standing by the red dragon's side, making no movements whatsoever. Their actions were not provocative, and, as far as Eragon could see, Murtagh wore no armor. Their body language made it clear that they were making no attempt to remain undetected. All the same, Eragon's back exploded subconsciously with remembrances of evil and adrenaline spiked in his system so quickly he almost fell to the ground.

_SAPHIRA!_

He felt her awaken immediately at her call, and sent her the sight he was beholding. Through her, he watched as she nearly tore apart the tent with the effort of getting into the air as quickly as she could. She roared, a sound that met his ears after a brief few seconds. _Guard yourself! _she screamed as she careened through the air at incredible velocity towards him.

Her roar echoed across the plains to where red rider and dragon resided, but they made no movement. The Varden awoke as one, and instantly there was great calamity. Eragon felt thirteen consciousnesses seek his out, and he sent them all the same message. _Murtagh is here. Come._

Saphira bolted out of the sky and unearthed mounds of dirt as she crushed the ground next to him. About the same time, cries of alarm and horror sounded in the Varden as soldiers caught sight of Thorn on the plains. Horns sounded; horns of conflict. Arya was the closest of the elves; she was the only of the thirteen who hadn't slept in the city. Saphira released Brisingr from her talons at Eragon's feet, and roared once more defiantly across the distance between the two dragons, a raw challenge. _I will tear him apart this time. Limb from limb and bone from bone._

_He has no army, _Eragon replied, retrieving his sword from the dirt. Saphira had seen no Empire behind him when she was in flight, and he felt none. It was impossible, even for Murtagh, to mask any force that may accompany him. _He is alone, and he's wearing no armor. What is happening?_

_It matters not. He has come for a fight and we will give it to him._

_Something's not right here… Thorn hasn't answered you at all. No response, no rebuke, no answer to your challenge… they haven't attacked. You were asleep, I was alone, they had the complete upper hand yet they balked at the opportunity. Why? It makes absolutely no sense. There is something here that you and I aren't seeing._

_Perhaps he is laying a trap for us. We will have to see through such ruses before we fall prey to them. _

Arya rushed up to his side clad battle-ready, her sword in hand and brandished. Her face was pale and contorted as she beheld their enemies, and she looked fiercer than Eragon had ever seen her. "Why is he here—alone?"

"I do not know," Eragon replied honestly. "Saphira thinks it's a trap. But he hasn't moved once. Could this be deceit in some way?"

"He has no motive for deceit. If he is alone, Galbatorix either has no confidence in an army or extreme confidence for him to act _as _the army. Either way, his presence means evil for us all. He must be confronted before he has opportunity to escape."

Eragon shuddered. "Agreed." He climbed onto Saphira's back, securing himself quickly and raising Brisingr. "I don't think you and the spellcasters will be much assistance. He's too powerful, you'll only perish. Stay back, and hope that I prevail. If not…" He looked her in the eye, and then bade Saphira to lift off.

As the blue dragon spread her wings for the lift, Arya leaped inhumanly onto her back, and secured herself before Eragon could protest. Saphira was beyond delaying, and let the matter be. The three of them took to the sky, and Eragon grudgingly ignored the happening. They quickly soared the brief length of the field until they landed a mere fifty yards from the red dragon. For the third time, as she clawed her way to a standstill on the ground, Saphira unleashed a deafening roar, and for the third time, Thorn appeared indifferent. The feeling of discomfort increased as Eragon leapt off Saphira's back, and it climaxed as he more closely examined the scene in front of him.

Murtagh _had _been wearing armor, but it had been shed and discarded in a wild heap to one side. Zar'roc was buried a foot deep into the ground ten yards from where the red rider stood, hilt up and standing resolute amid an ocean of grass. Murtagh stood with clasped hands, a few feet away from Thorn's flank, and the dragon himself sat calmly before them, making no move of aggression whatsoever.

Eragon paced forward viciously, moving dangerously within range of Thorn's fire. As Saphira leaped to cover him, he brandished Brisingr hatefully forward. Murtagh's face twisted into a smile, but there was something off. The smile was… wrong. There was no hate or cruelty. Something was terribly off. "Hello, Eragon."

"What is this?" Eragon snarled. "What is this trickery?"

"There are no tricks," Murtagh replied. "I am finished with foolishness and greed, slavery and tyranny. I refuse to be a puppet. I have come to tell you that, in a sense, you were right about me, just as, in a sense, you were completely wrong."

"What in hellfire are you saying?"

Murtagh laughed briefly, but again there was no cruelty. He spread his arms wide, and Eragon raised Brisingr fearfully. Nothing occurred, but he felt Arya bristle behind him and move to flank him. Murtagh surveyed them both before saying, "I guess we'll both never truly understand. Either way, I've made my choice about this. I've only come to tell you a few things."

"You have nothing to say to me and I have nothing to hear from you!" Eragon had never felt such anger simmer inside of him. Part of it was directed at himself, for seeing a lack of evil in Murtagh after all the cruelty the man had put the world through, put _him _through personally.

"What I have to say will give you a warning you need," Murtagh replied. "You have to understand the implications and repercussions I am trying to show you. If you don't understand, then no one ever will, and you will not be victorious in the end. Of that you must truly realize, or all is lost."

Eragon wanted nothing more than to charge forward and end Murtagh's life with a single swipe of his weapon, but a force not his own held him in place against his will. With all of his strength he fought against it, yet could not break the vice it grasped around his actions. He found himself slowly lowering Brisingr, staring at Murtagh with contempt but finding himself unable to attack. "Speak. And speak fast."

"He has almost discovered the name, Eragon," Murtagh said, and the two half-brothers stared each other dead in the eye.

The words vibrated inside Eragon's head, and massive echoes rebounded back and forth as he recalled the Ra'zac's words atop Helgrind in his memory. He felt the breath rush from his body as the connection was made. "How did you…"

"He has gathered resources and information and teachings and secrets from all across the world," Murtagh cut him off. "He has worked for decades with only one thing in mind, and he is finally close. If he discovers the name, he will have a source of power that will make him the master of life itself, and neither you nor anyone else will be able to overcome him. He must not be allowed to find the name."

"The name…" Eragon growled. "Of what? The name of what?"

Murtagh spoke, and Arya's mind cried out beside him. "The Ancient Language, brother. He is on the verge of uncovering the true name of the Ancient Language."

Dread crept into Eragon's veins. Ice sprang from Saphira as he felt the same fear sprout inside of her. Flashes of words Brom spoke to him in his brief learning with his father, secrets of magic that rested uncovered since the beginnings of time… Raw fear rested inside of him as he realized what Murtagh was saying. One who knew the _true name_ of the language all living things understood would have power over anything that had once existed as life. An unimaginable source of energy and power. A weapon unlike any other.

Eragon fought his emotions to gasp out words. "How can I trust you?"

"Because I speak the truth," Murtagh replied. Thorn sat calmly, staring at Eragon and Saphira, looking almost sad. "I'm your brother. I have wronged you and countless others and been used against my will but right now, I tell you this because it will be your only warning. And before Galbatorix will use me to strike you down I will tell you this and have you know the truth."

Eragon couldn't find words. His mind meshed unhindered with Arya's in their collective fear, and both were startled to discover that the other didn't doubt the red rider's words at all. Saphira was in pure shock, and none of them understood what was happening at all. As the Varden assembled behind them, Eragon shook his head free of the mystery and choked out, "Why?"

"Why, what?"

"Why are you doing this?" Eragon said. His voice escalated unbidden until he was screaming. "Why are you here? Why are you telling me this?"

Murtagh dropped silent, and stared at the ground for several long moments. The silence was so horrible Eragon, without difficulty, could identify their five throbbing hearts from the other sounds of the world. When Murtagh looked up again, his eyes were decided. "When you climbed back up after I'd struck you down… I saw such good… I don't even know. Perhaps you just made me decide that I _do _have a choice after all."

Murtagh, for the first time, moved. Eragon whipped Brisingr to the ready as Murtagh crossed to Thorn's saddle and removed a sizable leather knapsack from it, secured tight with strings. From the way he carried it, it was of medium weight and valuable, but he didn't brandish it as a weapon and he appeared almost cautious while carrying it. He carried it back to his original position, while Thorn remained motionless, and halted again as he stared at Eragon and Arya.

"I guess I decided what the course I would take was," he told them. "And maybe now Thorn and I will be remembered for something different than what we have been branded as before.

"Kill him, Eragon. Goodbye."

Murtagh drew his arm back and flung the knapsack at Eragon. Time seemed to slow down as the package rushed into the air towards the blue rider. He was sure that it stopped for a moment as he watched it fly. Every fiber in his body, every muscle and bone and piece of tissue begged for him to dodge the thing. His mind screamed at him to move out of the way so it wouldn't hit him. He wanted more than anything to do what his mind bid him. Yet when time sped up again, all conscious thought left him, and although he cried with all of his might to move, instinct forced him to stay. Instinct forced his empty arm outward.

He snared the knapsack from midair.

Thorn screamed. Not roared; screamed. The dragon rolled over on the ground as if burned and thrashed violently. Beside him, Murtagh dropped to the ground with similar cries of agony and convulsed horribly. Eragon was frozen by horror as their bodies collectively suffered synchronous spasms for a number of seconds. Arya's hand shot out and latched onto his arm, abruptly halting all blood flow. The screams of the red rider and dragon echoed long into the sky, piercing the distance with their pain.

Seconds later, the screams stopped. The thrashing stopped.

Everything was quiet. There was no movement. The Varden was completely silent behind them. Arya didn't release her grip on his arm, Saphira was motionless. For several moments, Eragon was under the impression that time was still standing still. Tentatively, in a world where nothing moved, he took a step forward. And then another.

His mind cast frantically out for Murtagh's, but there was nothing. Emptiness. Blackness. From both bodies there was no consciousness to grasp a hold of. He rushed forward unthinkingly and felt for signs of life on his half-brother's body. There were none.

As Arya gave a cry and rushed after him, he sat against the ground, shuddering. For someone he had tried so hard to hate lying dead at his feet, loss, horror, and anguish were the only things that encompassed his mind. Saphira padded forward, in shock, and brushed her snout against Thorn. There was no response motion, and a finite cloud of smoke eased from the red dragon's nostrils.

_What happened? _Saphira breathed, barely steady enough to be coherent, to both Eragon and Arya. The two, human and elf, locked eyes, both of them shaking with the shadow of horrible power that permeated throughout the area. The question was relayed between their gazes. Even as it became clear they knew as much as the other, Eragon understood exactly what had occurred. His mind blanked.

"He broke their vows in the Ancient Language," he whispered aloud. "He broke their vows to Galbatorix. It killed them."

Saphira stared down at the bodies of their enemies. Eragon looked into Murtagh's face and remembered how they had met. Arya glanced at both Thorn and Murtagh as Eragon ran through his head every memory relating them he could conjure from his mind. Shock clouded his system. A moment passed. Saphira pawed furiously at the dirt and turned her head skyward. Numbly, she released a giant scream of mourning for the world to comprehend.

Arya's eyes turned from the great dragoness to the knapsack Eragon held. His own followed hers, and he regarded the pack that had cost Murtagh his life. He was almost fearful to look inside, to discover what had been so great that vows had been spoken over it, that Galbatorix had protected secrets with so much power to have destroyed a dragon and rider over its protection.

And then he felt its familiar weight. And its roughly similar size. And his heart stopped beating as he looked up towards Saphira, his breath coming raggedly as their minds connected. As thoughts raced between them, he reached a trembling hand forward to undo the laces of the pouch, under Arya's intense gaze. The knots were undone. Barely trusting his eyes, he held the sack until his eyes glimpsed into its interior.

A glint of green met him there.


	19. 18: No One Mourns The Wicked

**I fear losing some of the readers I appreciate the most, but the story is on its course now. Despite your woes, I cannot change it. I hope you look past its shortcomings and continue to enjoy it as you have before.**

**Thanks to reviewers: ****DawnsRedemption****, ****theonewhobreathesfire****, ****TheJasAlex****, ****Pens Insanity****, ****Masteroftime****, ****Elvendiath****, ****The Meepsta****, ****RestrainedFreedom**** (x2), ****kmc995****, ****Jits****, ****Sable1212****, ArandomReviewer, ****ShadedWriterOfTheDarkness****, Eragonfan, Wolfyman123 and ****Totally Random Solembum**** (x5).**

**Disclaimer: Look over there! (steal idea)**

**18**

**No One Mourns the Wicked**

For some reason, Eragon didn't have enough energy to even raise his head when he finally completed the tale of what had happened. Nasuada had barely spoken, blatant shock and sometimes horror displayed unmasked upon her features. Islanzadí, displayed in the complete mirror adjacent to where Nasuada stood, looked troubled and thoughtful. Arya was as silent as the human woman, and, for a startling change, appeared just as emotionally broken, as well. Eragon himself, as well as Saphira, hadn't felt so drained of energy since the days of his harshest training, after physical and mental exertion that had lasted for hours. His source of exhaustion had lasted seconds this time; its intensity outlasted his prior episodes by eons.

The elves guarded the bodies of the red rider and dragon from the throes of the Varden people while Eragon and Arya went to Nasuada, protected by fierce guard in the city, of what had transpired. Aside from her own words describing events Eragon couldn't, Arya had yet to speak since glancing into the knapsack and discovering what had cost Murtagh and Thorn their vows and their lives. She was as close to him as she possibly could be without causing them both discomfort or provoking comment from Nasuada.

Now, after their tale was told and their expressions laid clear their horror, Nasuada stared at the bundle Eragon clasped with iron hands and clearly shuddered. Eragon imagined her beholding the power of what rested in his hands, and he felt the sensations along with her. "Murtagh is dead," she repeated. She sounded neither pleased nor relieved by the event, just as Eragon did. In some ways, he thought, it would have been simpler for them if he had killed Murtagh in combat rather than have the man die in sacrifice. "He is dead, Thorn is dead, and the green dragon egg is in our possession. The last dragon egg."

Eragon said nothing. It did not appear as if Nasuada was looking for confirmation. He watched as she suddenly experienced difficulty standing and crossed the study she had commandeered for her use in the governor's house. Inside of their private meeting, all doors locked and wards erected, she collapsed in the chair behind the desk with clear strain.

Arya stirred, and Eragon had to restrain himself from reaching out to her. Urges for physical contact, for comfort, seized him that had been dormant since Oromis' passing. He stayed his hand and arm and instead watched as Arya spoke. "The scope of victory has widened incredibly for the Varden."

"Aye," Nasuada whispered. "This means everything."

Eragon's eyes turned towards the bundle in his hand, and he lamented to Saphira, _This doesn't feel like everything. This feels like a gift for which a terrible price was forced in payment, without possibility for refusal. It shouldn't feel this way._

Saphira moaned in his mind. _I share your mind, little one. Take comfort in me._

"The spectrum has changed abruptly and without warning, but it is for the better," Islanzadí said from her scryed position. "We must make immediate preparations to secure the egg and offer proper respect to the bodies of the red dragon and its rider. He was no traitor in the end. He paid the ultimate sacrifice, as countless others have and will yet."

"He _broke his oath_," Nasuada repeated incredulously. Her fingers rubbed intensely at her temple and eyes. "Is that even possible?"

"It is, and he has," Arya said. "To break an oath in the Ancient Language means certain death. For lies and deceit have no meaning in this world, in our tongue. He knew this, and he knew exactly what he was doing when he committed his actions."

"The oaths are supposed to be unbreakable," Nasuada said earnestly. "That's why they're made in the Ancient Language, it's so they are unbreakable and the taker must live by those oaths no matter what the cost. You've said these things to me before, all of you. How is it possible, then, that Murtagh has broken his vow and died?"

"It is not impossible," Arya replied quietly.

"Only strenuously difficult," Islanzadí added, and continued, "The Ancient Language is only a boundary when oaths are taken, but not an impregnable one. In the mind, once an oath is made, every action made that attempts to break the vow is rebuked by the mind, and the being cannot do it. In that way, the oath cannot be broken by a slip of the tongue or by mistake. If you concentrate hard enough on it, however, forcing powers beyond that which most magicians and spellcasters hope to accomplish before they pass on, a powerful follower of the ancient secrets is able to throw off the hindrances the language places upon them, although it takes its final toll no matter how the pledge is broken; death, without exception."

Eragon struggled against the bitterness that tried to impede upon his stone expression. With hard hands and heavy eyes, he moved forward and set the knapsack down upon the desk Nasuada sat behind. He allowed the cloth to fall away from around the fierce emerald stone, and its brilliance added remarkable color to the otherwise dry room. "So his final act was his most difficult one. He made it for the good of all of Alagaësia."

"Yes," Islanzadí said. "And he must not be forgotten. The egg is a most pressing matter… it must be removed from such dangerous areas of the map quickly, before we lose our advantage."

"Murtagh is dead, my Queen," Arya exclaimed rather sharply. "Galbatorix has no minion powerful enough to challenge Eragon anymore. The egg is no safer nor in any more harm here than it would be were it deep and secure in Du Weldenvarden."

Islanzadí visibly bristled, and Nasuada raised an eyebrow. The elven monarch said, "Be that as it may, no chances must be risked. The tactical advantage this presents to our cause is, above all, a tide that may well have the power to turn this war in our favor, after so long fighting from the underside. Eragon, I request that you and Saphira immediately accompany Arya to Farthen Dûr immediately with the egg. What happens from then onward will then be decided."

"Queen Islanzadí," Nasuada retorted quickly, "with respect, you have no right to make such requests. Additionally, I do not approve of moving the egg so quickly. We must consider our position carefully, lest we make a mistake and lose the advantages we have. No one yet knows that we have acquired the egg, and although Galbotorix assuredly knows Murtagh took it we may yet know something the king doesn't!"

"No." Eragon shook his head. Arya glanced towards him, and a horrible mixture of sadness and realization connected them through the air. "Galbatorix knows exactly what has passed. He knows we have the egg. Our only advantage is that he doesn't consider it enough of a risk to fly out after it himself. Otherwise, the Varden would have already been attacked by Shruikan and our armies laid waste. Obviously, he has not taken that step."

"In any case, the egg is too exposed," Islanzadí persisted. "At the very least, I insist that it be removed from the front lines of the battlefield."

"The winter is upon us, Queen Islanzadí," Nasuada replied. "The Varden are in little danger with Murtagh dead. Galbatorix flying out to meet us is our greatest danger as of now, and he has yet to take that step. For now, even where we are, we are safe."

"You are never safe from his evils, human," Islanzadí stated, although for her tone it may have well been an exclamation of the coldest provocation. "No matter what danger you may or may not be in, I will not stand for the egg to rest where it is. For something that your people _and_ mine have toiled after for nigh on a century, the advantage and tool we have just gained is immeasurable. We must not forsake its safety."

"The egg," Eragon cut in coldly, "is not a tool." The ferocity he spoke with made him rethink his words, but it was too late to pull them back now. Islanzadí, despite her composure, looked shocked at his words, and Arya was staring at him frightfully. He felt only pride from Saphira in the back of his mind. Despite himself, he felt courage and defiance grow inside of him, and found words springing from his lips unbidden by his mind. "And never again refer to it as such."

Nasuada's jaw would've hit the ground had she not caught it at the last moment. Arya, with all of her elven agility, nearly stumbled while standing perfectly still. Islanzadí looked as if she were trying to become angry, but all of the astonishment was clearly preventing her from doing so. In the back of Eragon's mind, Saphira would've been laughing under any other circumstances. Eragon himself was sure he was to be thrown from both the elves' audience and Nasuada's grace. Islanzadí was too stunned to find words, however, and Nasuada was equally as perplexed.

Arya came to their mutual rescue. "I'm sure my queen did not mean to refer to the dragon inside of the egg as a tool. She would never aspire to insult the magnificent beast as such."

"Of course," Nasuada agreed quickly.

Eragon barely heard her. His eyes still blazed with anger as he stared straight into the mirror, right into the elven queen's eyes, daring her to speak against him with the coldest pit of his heart. He never expected her quiet gaze to falter. Yet he watched silently as her eyes flickered away from his intense, berating stare before she turned her entire head downward. He had never felt Arya so surprised, and never had he been so perplexed himself.

"We must discuss this in private, Queen Islanzadí, you and I," Nasuada mediated, clearly trying to avoid an interspecies incident. "And we shall have to contact Orik; he must be informed of what has transpired, and I believe he should be included in how we decide our actions. Please leave us, Eragon, Arya."

Arya looked disgruntled at being dismissed, but Eragon was suddenly eager to be free of the capitol building. He bowed to Nasuada, turning a cold eye towards Islanzadí, and turned to leave. Arya hesitated.

Eragon stopped as he watched her outstretch an arm. "What is to become of the egg in the interim?" she said.

Nasuada glanced between the elven envoy, the queen, and the emerald stone. Her glances transformed clearly as her thoughts evidently did. "I assumed it would remain here in my under the custody of my guard as they guard me. However…" The leader of the Varden crossed carefully to the desk she normally sat behind and precariously lifted the egg from where it rested. She swiveled around and paced towards Arya, her eyes never leaving the surface of the green object. Islanzadí was completely silent as she placed it in Arya's open hands. "You are the egg courier, and I trust you more than I trust my men with my life. Bear it well until further matters are decided. Please."

Cradling the egg as if it were her own newborn child, Arya brought it to her chest and folded the knapsack back over its surface, concealing it from view. She glanced once at her queen, then at Nasuada. Briefly, she bowed to them both, as if mystified, before turning and following Eragon to the door. Watching her every moment, he held the door open for her. She didn't even protest as she crossed through. He glanced once back at his liegelord, who looked more confused and anxious than displeased, and closed the door loudly behind himself.

He followed a few paces behind her as she glided throughout the hallways, passing confused-looking sentries and commanders waiting to be briefed. She held the knapsack more rigidly, disguising its purpose. He and she were the only ones who knew what rested beneath the leather coverings, and Eragon intended to keep it that way until Nasuada decided differently. He was more entranced by the mysteries behind Arya's character than the egg at the moment, and the whole experience was scarred by the horrible emptiness he felt at the passing of red dragon and rider. Which confused him, as well.

He said nothing as he followed Arya down staircases and out into the courtyard. She seemed to be walking of her own accord, but at one point she slowed enough so that it was clear he was meant to catch up. He did so, and they strolled side-by-side, grim expressions and rigid movements synchronizing their motion. They were even but he allowed her to mindlessly choose her path, and she led them throughout the streets. Those of the Varden that knew of what had occurred murmured as they passed, sometimes words of courage and admiration to Eragon or else uttering to their neighbors. Those that didn't know spoke loudly until others informed them, and they quickly became subtle.

Eragon felt many of them jubilant and elated with the freedom from the fear of Murtagh's attacks, but they could somehow sense his downcast mood and didn't expose him to their joy. He wasn't sure what was striking these anxious, hardened feelings inside of him… but something didn't feel right. It just _wasn't_ right.

All crowds parted when he didn't return their enthusiasm, and together he and Arya walked through and out of the streets of Belatona without words. Saphira swooped overhead and glided as they continued into the close hills. They walked for many minutes, continually silent, until no stragglers followed and they were completely alone. The sun had been covered hours before in clouds and it was a dismal day from the sunshine that had started it. Winds whipped fiercely across the plains, chilling Eragon significantly. As Arya did, however, he refused to show any signs of discomfort. Her eyes were locked on the bundle she clutched, her eyes wandering constantly as if reassuring herself that it hadn't sprouted wings and flown away on the draft.

Eragon looked towards the dreary plains in the far distance, and remained silent. In this way, after a countless number of moments standing and listening and waiting, he forced Arya to speak the first words. "I have never respected anyone more than I do Murtagh."

He stiffened, for unknown reasons. "We will forget his sacrifice. We will not forget that in the end, he was as much a rider as any and all of good. Murtagh and Thorn will not be remembered as enemies."

She turned towards him slowly, crossing what must have been a minute with her deliberate patience. "And what of this? I treasure it, every moment, yet somehow I feel as if it is an empty echo of that pain which has been taken as retribution."

"We will take it as the miracle it was meant to represent," Eragon replied quietly, kindly. "And think of it no more except as what it is."

She didn't reply, and another silence amongst the cold winds developed. Her midnight hair whipped mercilessly around her face, but she made no movement to restrain it in any way. Eragon found himself regarding the view of her and the egg as an almost perfect image, and had to force his gaze and thoughts away. His own proclamation had him in doubtful thoughts, thoughts he wasn't quite keen to explore.

He started walking again, not quite caring or checking whether or not Arya followed. His mind drifted with his footsteps, throughout the hills. The atrocities the red rider had committed would not be forgotten by the Varden. Eragon knew this. There would be celebrations that Murtagh was dead, celebrations he would not bring himself to condemn. In his mind, it seemed, there was a conflict at hand. For all of the cruelty free of bonds that Murtagh had showed to Eragon, the scratches cut unnecessarily into Eragon's back and the death of Hrothgar in cold blood… for all of these things the courage and camaraderie of memory returned to him in force. It was an endless war inside of his head, one side fighting for good and the other staunchly stocking evil. In this way, to Eragon, his mind was trying to tell him that it was good that Murtagh was dead, while his mind was also trying to tell him it was tragic and horrid. This cacophony left him confused and bitter, and it fueled his feet forward, moving evermore.

He knew where his body was taking him, and was powerless to resist even if he had desired it. They had not touched the bodies after confirming their death, and as he approached now he saw the aftermath of the event. Elves stood carefully, forcing back any persistent humans and restraining bystanders. Thorn lay in the same twisted, agonized position that he had passed in, Murtagh skewed in the dirt by his side.

Eragon stared at them from a ridge and felt disgust and regret. _It shouldn't have ended like this._

_How would you have had it end?_ Saphira admonished. _In the end, at least, Murtagh died on his own terms, not those laid out for him by a master he did not choose or serve with an open heart. In the end, his freedom was his. That is the only sense of pride or dignity he had left. He would have desired nothing less._

Eragon accepted her words. Arya moved to stand beside him, having followed him unbidden across the grasslands. He watched the forms without really registering them, tracking their movements, gauging their skills. Arya touched his mind, and he felt the confused anxiety that he himself possessed there. Together, they observed the bodies of their enemies turned comrades until Eragon could stand the sight no longer.

With strides longer than ten men's' Eragon scaled down the hill and addressed the human crowd trying to persuade their way past the elves to the bodies. "What business have you here? Nothing but corpses of another battlefield rest yonder."

"Murtagh is dead, Argetlam!" a man yelled. "We come to confirm the wondrous truth!"

"Has a century of death taught you nothing?" Eragon cried. He toned his voice to an admonishing level, and delivered his words with intentional, controlled heat. "Death is no victory. It is but a curse that plagues the land, and any who celebrate it only add to the disease. Dally if you will, but understand the evil you yourself spread."

Several in the crowd faltered, and mutterings flew threw the people like wildfire. It was as if they had struck by a giant fist for the way they turned and retreated, in a pack. All except for a stray few men flew into the hills, towards Belatona, as if chased by Galbatorix himself, and once the idlers realized they were alone they turned tail and sprinted after their fellows. In a matter of moments after Eragon had spoken, the plain surrounding Murtagh and Thorn's bodies was clear but for he, Arya, and the elves.

Eragon turned away from the runners with disdain, and addressed Blodhgram where he stood between the two red bodies. "There is nothing further you can do here. Return to the city. Rest while you can. We may soon have need for energy."

"We will stand guard, Eragon-elda," Blodhgram replied. The elves didn't move but their consent was clear. "Until there is need no longer for our services in the area."

"No longer are your services needed." Eragon gestured at the bodies to either side. "Look, Blodhgram. Reach out to them. They are dead. There is no danger anymore." He glanced over all of the elves, searching in all of them for the submission he desired as a gift. "Please. I ask you as your friend and brethren."

They all hesitated without moving. Blodhgram observed him with a heavy eye, over several long moments. Finally, the furry elf said, "As you command, Eragon-elda. We will await you in our city tents for when you return."

He bowed, as did the other eleven elves, and then they too quickly departed the scene, sprinting into the hills and disappearing among them within seconds. The wind whipped aside their luxurious hair as they vanished amongst the grasses and carried along to strike Eragon's face with vengeance. It caressed both he and Arya briefly before continuing on in its relentless journey as they became the only ones in the field.

Eragon caught himself staring at his companion, who was resting both hands against the egg and staring off into the distance. He turned away quickly as Saphira glided down from the sky and landed beside them, the air heavy as she sniffed and observed the remnants of the red. She turned her large eye on him and he sighed. _I didn't want to _order _them. I simply asked them to go, not as a command._

_Do not fret over it, or it will develop from a nuisance to an issue. _Saphira tipped her face forward, nudging against Thorn's lifeless leg. The movement was almost compassionate, mournful. She turned back to him, and he felt all of the confusing, pained, heart-wrenching feelings that were captured inside of his chest rebounding from her own emotions.

He closed himself to their pooling emotions and took a deep breath. _We will need wood._

They locked eyes once more before she vaulted into the sky, sailing towards Leona Lake. Arya appeared surprised by her abrupt flight but Eragon made no motion. As she gained distance, he found the strength somehow to step forward towards his brother.

Murtagh was still curled in the stance in which he had died. His eyes were closed, his fists were clenched, and his mouth was hanging slightly open, echoing eternally the final scream his lips had released. Carefully, Eragon lifted his brother from the ground his own bare hands and carried him to where Thorn rested. Setting him down, Eragon smoothed his features to appear more peaceful and pressed his mouth shut, chanting blessings in the Ancient Language as he moved. Arya, behind him, was motionless, and he sensed her blocked mind only vaguely.

With great difficulty, he managed to soothe Thorn's face over as well, just as Saphira touched down again by their side. She released a tree trunk from her fore-talons and two more smaller trunks from her maw. She looked to Eragon with regret, comfort, and understanding before launching back into the sky for more.

Eragon worked his way along Thorn's body, intentionally prolonging the venture he was about to undertake. Finally, he could go no more without reaching Murtagh's saddle. He took several deep breaths, sensing the raw energy that had been masked by the aura still resting around the two and the elves' continual magic. He glanced once at Arya, who remained stone cold and staring into the sky, and finally reached towards the saddlebags and, with a brief effort, tore open the flaps.

A brown stone, as large four of his fists, rested in one bag. He reached out to it, and found that even with elven strength there was a substantial weight to lift it. The power that emanated from it was reserved but vast, and he felt a powerful mind shielding itself from his incursion. With wonder, Eragon restrained his efforts, and checked the bags of the opposite side.

He repeated his inspection with this side, and felt his breath leave his body as if slammed to the dirt by an Urgal. Two stones, both around a half-foot in diameter, resided there. Both faintly glowed prominently where the brown's shine was dull, one colored a brighter blue than Saphira and the other a range between orange and yellow. Both were not nearly as prominent in distinction as that of the brown, but they still excreted significant power into the air like lightning bolts stemming from a common point. Eragon could not hold all three at once, and he stared regarding the one already in his hands as Saphira shared the images.

_Three eldunarí_, she breathed quietly. _Three heart of hearts that shield themselves from us because of the wrongs they have been subjected to._

_Aye,_ Eragon replied. _But think not of that. We will hold them and treasure them as we would eggs, and we will do our best to contact them and tell them of their relative freedom as we are able._

_There is a fourth, Eragon._

He dumbly looked for one in the saddle to confirm her words before realizing what she meant. Belatedly, he looked towards Thorn's peaceful face before reaching out for his stored consciousness. His extensions met nothing; no pain, nor response, nor thought. _He must not have stored his consciousness before breaking the oath. Perhaps he forgot._

_No, _Saphira replied. _A dragon would make no such mistake. He did not wish to exist beyond the passing of his rider. They wished to enter freedom together._

She deposited two large trunks to the ground and thumped down beside him. He recognized the truth on her words as he held up the brown eldunarí for her to examine. She was rebuked momentarily by the muted power coming from the stone, and they shared a glance. _Amazing, isn't it?_

_Yes, _she agreed. She moved so his saddle was in his reach, and he carefully placed the heart of hearts in his own bags before securing it. He did the same with the two others, taking equal care and marveling at the compact, breath-taking objects. _There will be time. Now, do right for your brother as he would for you._

Eragon nodded, and turned towards the trees. Arya's gaze had finally fallen unto him, and he caught her eye as he moved to work the wood. No words passed, nor did her recognition of their finding, although he was sure she knew exactly what had been done. Neither spoke, and Eragon slowly moved to continue his work.

He carved and placed with magic, carefully arranging around the two bodies so it would be quick and proper. It took him far less to set up than it would for any conventional, physical means, but by the time he was finished the light of the day was disappearing through the clouds. He went to stand by Arya, clasping his hands behind his back, feeling for Brisingr's scabbard when he was finished, but still she said nothing. There was considerable doubt in his mind whether or not he should bother her in her empty mindset, but he couldn't help himself but to speak to her. "Have you words to say to Murtagh's essence before we honor him and cast him unto his freedom?"

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, her head swiveled so that she could look him in the eye, from mere feet away. To his surprise, as her emerald eyes clashed with his brown, a single droplet of water slid from the edge of the green orb and gilded a trail behind it as it slipped down her perfect cheek, across the rim of her lips, and dripped off of her cheek. Eragon swore he felt the tremor as the tear hit the ground.

With a resolve he felt he didn't have, he forced himself to turn away, back towards the bodies. He spoke his own words under his breath, so silently she couldn't have heard him speak, and bowed his head in his restraint. As his feelings of bitterness and regret climaxed, Saphira unleashed her grief in a momentary ball of fire. The spark caught, the wood lit, and a minute later the bodies illuminated the entire field around with their flames.

The next few hours didn't seem to pass right for Eragon.

His consciousness was sketchy at best. He guided himself around the fire, to the opposite side of Arya. He knew not why, only he needed to distance himself from everything. Barely conveying herself to her rider, Saphira bolted unannounced into the sky as night finally took them. The bodies burned between him and the elf, who eventually lowered herself to sit on the ground beneath her. He remained standing, watching her through the flickering mass as she stared determinedly into the fire itself. Never again could he catch her eye.

He refused to watch the face of his friend, his brother, succumb to the destructive blaze, but continued uttering the blessings in his mind as he watched the echo of the fire rage into the sky. He wished he could do as Saphira had done, escape into the darkness of the night as she had done. He had no wings, however, and even across their distance, no matter their relationship or the meaning behind it, he refused to leave Arya alone. It was unthinkable. And so they remained situated on opposite sides of the horrible ending as they regarded, in a sense, fate in corporeal form.

An unknown mind, protected from his probing consciousness, entered Eragon's range, and approached the fire from the hills in Belatona's direction. He placed his hand on Brisingr's hilt, wary but unworried, as a form garbed in a hooded black cloak became visible distantly in the fire's light. It came closer and closer, undeterred by the scene or the people standing around it.

Eragon relaxed at the same time confusion ignited as the flame's flicker gave way to the sight of dark skin beneath the hood. He stayed his hand and clasped it again with his other, and Nasuada rounded the inferno to stand by his side. Her face was hidden, her mind protected. He said nothing, waiting for her to speak first.

When she did, it was with effort and in a low voice. "For many nights I have lied awake hoping this moment would come. Now that it has, I find myself stricken with sadness. He was my friend, too. I did not fully understand what he meant to you until this moment."

Eragon hesitated. "I thought I would be at some sort of peace, after my master's death. It would have been better if he had died a traitor… we would not be honoring the soul of a hero, and there would be celebrations that we would join with instead of standing in a field mourning and honoring."

"He could have died no other way," Nasuada replied.

Eragon didn't reply, allowing the truth behind her words to completely sink in instead of offering retort. Arya remained silent and expressionless across the way, giving no indication that she had noticed or acknowledged Nasuada's arrival. Eragon bit his tongue several times, before finally saying, "He was twisted, maybe cruel and sometimes blinded into action by hate. But he was good. And he has delivered us the greatest hope we have had since the Fall."

"No, Eragon," Nasuada said. "_You_ are the greatest hope we've had since the Fall. And you're giving us more every day. Never let yourself think that you are anything less. When Varden see you they find courage they have never before possessed. Murtagh enhances our steam, but you lead our charge. You are our confidence, Eragon, our heart and soul. Without you, I would be as weak a leader as Orrin."

"He leads as he sees," Eragon replied, allowing the tangent to momentarily capture his thoughts. "But his hands are tied too often for him to do anything with the power you possess."

"I know."

They lapsed for a moment, and his thoughts returned to Murtagh, to the tear forever trailing down Arya's face in his mind, the egg rested in the elf's lap across the way. He tore his eyes from staring at her again, burying his vision in the flames, avoiding _all_ of the faces around him and in. "What was decided between you and Islanzadí?"

Nasuada grunted and groaned at the same time. "It was an arduous process, but in the end I got Orik to back my side. Arya will bear the egg between Farthen Dûr, Surda, and Sílthrim. We will wait as we have with Saphira until it hatches while we continue our assault. In return, Islanzadí agreed to forgive your disrespect and allow Arya to choose her departure, depending on the winter's approach and our availability for her to leave."

Eragon bristled. "There is no _time_ for that! We cannot afford the passivity that was taken with Saphira's egg."

"We have no choice," Nasuada replied. "We cannot force the egg to hatch, and we cannot postpone while we are already so dangerously far into Empire territory. So, we will press on, and the egg will hatch when it hatches. We will utilize the new rider whenever it does. Until then, the price for hesitating is too great, and we must press forward led by your charge."

Her words didn't inspire the confidence they were clearly meant to, but he bit his tongue on offering a negative reply. Especially in the current light, he didn't need to oppose the decision of higher powers every chance he got. Too many silences permeated their discussion, and he began to think of ways he might be able to slip away without causing undue offense. He didn't get the chance before she spoke again.

"He said to me once, if I were anyone except for who I was, he would speak to me. But because of who I was, he was forced to speak up to me." She paused, glaring into the flames so fiercely Eragon wasn't sure if the glint in her eye came from reflection or inner fuel. "He also said that we would have been great friends had my father not imprisoned him. I abandoned fantasies of that when he became our enemy… but I realize now I had never abandoned hope. I wish we had had the chance to build our friendship. Instead, he becomes a casualty, and because of who I was and am I remain alive. Is that not cruel and unfair, Eragon?"

Eragon didn't know whether the question was rhetorical, but had no answer for his liegelord in any case. The air seemed to shake with the power of her words, however, and the reverberations, if only in his imagination, echoed outward for several moments before the wind once again threw everything powerfully against its will.

He wasn't sure how many minutes passed before Nasuada gathered herself up and left the fireside. He was vaguely aware of a tear rolling down his cheek as he felt her but didn't watch her go. For the first time, he observed the remnants of bodies for features, recognizing only ashes as the final cinders finished their cremation. He closed his eyes against the flow of water that threatened, and looked to the sky to prevent himself from outright crying. _Now on, you must be strong. And tears will not save the Varden, or bring him back, or bring Oromis or Glaedr back._

The fires burned lower and lower, leaving only the faintest scratches of light in the clouded, moonless night. Arya didn't move, and nor did Eragon as the lancing flames became remnant sparks and flickers. The giant fire had left behind more than a wide array of ashes, betraying nothing of the amazing power that had once resided in grand form from the soot they had become.

The only sign of what had composed them at all was the fist-sized red stone that rested in the center of the fireplace. Eragon, moving with respectful motions, moved over the ashes and carefully brushed it away. The eldunarí was dull, lifeless, untouched by the fire. He held it in his hand and offered his most sincerest respects for Thorn's short and miserably slaved life. Saphira was closed to him still, but he felt her agony join with his as he clutched the last remainders of the red dragon. With trembling hands, Eragon brought the stone briefly up to touch his forehead, praying.

A second passed, and Eragon pulled back his hands and threw the stone high into the air. He waited patiently as it reached its apex, and then he raised an arm to follow its path. "Jierda."

The stone shattered into a billion unseen pieces. In a matter of seconds on the wind, they were all gone.

With magic, Eragon lifted the ashes into the air, and surrendered them to the nature of the wind. Murtagh and Thorn's remnants fled quickly into the hills and he ceased tracking them. The amount of emotional control he required to prevent tears from spilling was tremendous, and by the time he turned back to Arya he barely had strength enough to move.

She was staring into him, and he wasn't quite sure what to say; or even if words were required. Their gazes rested in each others' faces awkwardly but strangely comforting for a few long moments before he stepped forward carefully and offered his hand to help her up. Even in the dim light, Eragon could make out feature of her face clearly. The sight in the dark simultaneously rocketed his heart upward and made him feel as if he had been dealt one of Roran's punches to the gut.

He was slightly surprised when she took his hand, and allowed him to pull her to her feet. They said no words, and both turned to walk back towards Belatona. Neither one of them led; they generally moved as one. Arya clutched at the egg and once more was constantly glancing at it, verifying its presence. Eragon wasn't sure he had ever seen her as anxious. Nor as wondrous as her eyes seemed to be.

They entered the camps silently, nothing but ghosts of shadows to humans who managed to just barely glimpsed them. The elves, true to their words, had stayed inside the city's walls, and did not stand at guard around the tent that was unmistakably Eragon's. The clearing beside it and the emptiness around it lacked Saphira's presence, but Eragon could feel her in flight nearby, if not directly communicate with her. He sent images of him returning to the camp into her mind, unsure if she could read them but hoping she understood.

He hesitated slightly, before leaving Arya and entering his tent without farewell. Unprompted by invitation, just as he had hoped and feared she would do, she followed him, undeterred by the boundaries that had existed between them less than two weeks earlier. He watched surprised as she went immediately to his bed and set the egg down upon it. When that action was complete, she turned and held his gaze for a time before beginning to pace.

Eragon didn't know what else to do. He crossed to his bed and sat down beside the green stone, running his hands across it carefully. "Does something trouble you, Arya Svit-kona?"

She whirled on him. Her eyes glinted fierce emerald in the meager light sinking through the tent's thin layers. "Is that not an obvious question with an obvious answer? And what of your own troubles?"

"Nasuada is right," Eragon replied. "We should be celebrating, not mourning. This is not a time for cheer."

"Then why do you not cheer, Eragon?"

He was dumfounded by her words, struggling to recover. "I cannot in good faith celebrate the death of one of my closest friends, especially when he did what he did in the end." Every inch of the scars on his back seemed to become even more apparent as he spoke, and he felt at the rippled skin with remembrance as he continued. "I'm so tired of losing people. I don't know what I would do if I lost anyone else."

Arya turned away from him, and her voice shook. "_That_ is what troubles me, Eragon. Because he will not be the last to die."

She said no more, leaving the thought to sink in. He hesitated for several long moments. His thoughts seemed to separate between ignorance, loss and fright. An image sprung forth to his mind. "Then why can't I just die for all of the others?"

She swiveled to face him. "Because you are the rider. Of all of us, you are the only one guaranteed to survive."

Eragon tilted his eyes, and found his fingers unconsciously running over the egg. "Need I be the hero? I would rather take the pain from the world. I am no longer the last hope."

"But you are, Eragon. You are. Can you not see? No matter who the egg hatches for, you are the only one who has taken the _journey_ that is necessary to defeat Galbatorix. Others may have the strength, or the determination, or the power… but none have what you have, which is everything you have since Saphira broke from her egg for you. The path of a lifetime, in only a year. You are not only our last hope, Eragon; you are _our hope_. And, no matter what passes around you, you cannot change that."

Eragon slowly turned and laid down on the bed, the egg covering the opposite side of the bed, separating him from the elf. "Sometimes I wish I wasn't alone."

He rolled onto his side, facing away from her. The conversation was ended, him finally getting in the final word. She made no move nor attempt to reply, and he was fairly certain she was not satisfied with his choice. Moments passed, however, and he forgot the woes and troubles of the day, beginning to slip into his state of dreaming.

Yet he was completely lucid when she finally moved.

She crossed to the side of the bed, and lifted the egg. Moving so slowly he could have sworn at times that either she or time was standing still, she laid her lithe form silently against the coarse sheets, situated quite rigidly on her back. Eragon sensed her every movement, barely daring to breath as he felt the mattress below him shift. At least a foot separated her right shoulder from his back, but they might as well have been touching for the electric shock that blitzed his system.

Tucking the egg over her stomach and crossing both her arms over it, Arya released a long sigh and guarded her mind as she attempted to sleep.

For all of her actions, the turmoil of the day, and the pain ripping endlessly through his soul, Eragon fell into sleep inevitably. Were he any less exhausted, he didn't know what he would have done with the only creature he had ever fallen in love with on the opposite side of his bed. As it was, the torture of the closeness without closeness curved his nightmares into hell.

* * *

><p><em>You are not.<em>

He wasn't alone. He was never alone.

Not like she. She knew what it was to be alone, completely alone. What it was to beg life to take you or for a friend to come to your rescue, alone when all thought and hope had been lost to the terrible, aching _emptiness_ that the innocent were so often forced to feel. What it felt like to realize that the force that you cared for more than any other no longer existed.

Loss. Pain. It all came crashing back with every calamity that struck her, and she hated it almost as much as she had loved. Loved so greatly, as he was torn from her by the Shade, over a task she had performed mindlessly for decades and cursed herself countless times for undertaking. The guilt and hate she felt for herself surpassed no other, and as such she lost herself as she had lost all else.

In the space of one moment that felt so long ago, she had lost everything that rooted her to life. Faölin. Saphira's egg. All gone, without time. She had drifted often between consciousness and death, trying to find reasons to exist on either side of the void. Eragon's words struck to her core, and she felt his pain without sympathy; the loss that crashed upon her shoulders was too much for her to bear, and she wouldn't be able to persevere forever.

And the loss only compiled. First she endlessly fought the emptiness Faölin had filled, then she dealt with the guilt she blamed herself of. Eventually it transformed into a feeling of failing Brom and Oromis, then turned to horror as she lost both of them. And now Murtagh was gone, as well, a feat only a day earlier she would have prayed for.

_Faölin._

As she laid down in the bed Eragon already occupied, as guilt and horrible loss screamed into her mind, only her desire to be close to another being kept her mind from killing her with its magnitude of terrible agony. Only desire for something she wouldn't lose found her in the dark, and she begged the night not to take what little she had away.

_Faölin._

She had watched Murtagh and Thorn burn with untiring stillness. As she had frozen motionless, relentlessly fighting back herself, every moment of pain, every thought she had felt since the moment of her mate's passing replayed itself beneath the flawless intensity of her mind's eye, and everything came crashing down upon her. The feelings of loneliness, the feelings of loss and pain, of helplessness and agony that she would never be freed of…

And now she had crawled into bed with someone else, just so she wasn't alone, just because he was the only one that had ever managed to make her forget, if only for a brief few moments, of the pain.

She had stared into the fire, and she had seen everything she had ever known burn in effigy's flames. She had watched the riders perish, the elven cities be incinerated, Oromis and Glaedr fall, her beloved Faölin be struck down as simple as dotting the life from an insect, Eragon be torn in half by the blade of the one who burned in front of her that day. Everything she had ever cherished was disappearing, little by little, until she had nothing left, and she couldn't survive any longer if she was alone.

Faölin was gone. He had been her tether, and he had left her so quiet and by herself. She had nothing left except the only true friend she could not successfully reject. The one person she could not lose, as she had lost everything else.

But that was all that existed. Loss. Loss. Loss. She could not lose the rider. No—she could not lose _Eragon_. Only now did she begin to understand that he was more to her than the only hope the world could still entertain. He was her laughter and her smile, the rare joy that flourished in the middle of the darkest night or the controlling factor on the lightest day. Even in blatant immaturity and misunderstanding he was the anchor that held her in place, sane, as the clouds danced and the stars and sun passed. He was the only thing she had left. And she could not bear to have him die as so many others had left her.

What had drawn her tear as she had watched him set the fire was not the pain of losing Faölin, or the reality of losing Murtagh… it was the cold, dark, pitted truth inside of her as he finally acknowledged her fear of losing Eragon.


	20. 19: Tidings

**These chapters are getting TOO long. Does anyone hate the new account toolbar as much as I do? **

**Thanks to reviewers: ****Sorrows Equinox****, ****Tsukune08****, ****TheJasAlex****, ****DawnsRedemption****, ****Masteroftime****, ****Elvendiath****, ****RestrainedFreedom****, EP Cj, ****Marshall88****, ****The Meepsta****, ****KyuuinShinkei****, ****Totally Random Solembum****, ****The Pro****, ****warrior of worlds****, Wolfyman123, ****ElvenFriend2.0****, ****Naomie Perino Cynux****, aghand and ****kmc995****.**

**Disclaimer: There's a handsome and fairly intelligent person trying to steal your idea, look! (put idea back once done with it)**

**19**

**Tiding**

Eragon rolled over in the bed and started when he remembered where he was and who was next to him. His eyes flashed open and once more he was gripped by the concurring emotions of relief and dismay, finding Arya to have left his bed. By the loss of warmth on the sheets, it had been long ago, as well.

Shaking the sleep from his system, he sat up, and noticed that Saphira too was gone. The tent remained otherwise undisturbed, his armor and Brisingr where he had left them, but the egg was gone, as well. Since he knew Arya would not let it out of her sight and barely believed it was still there even when it was, he was unconcerned with that fact.

Stretching and switching out shirts quickly, he undid the flap of his tent and walked out into the morning sunlight, his feet crunching over solid frost as he did so. The sky was cloudless, the breeze was less than devastating, and the orb that hung a half hand above the eastern horizon shone light not quite brutal. The emotions of yesterday were quickly forgotten in the new setting, and Eragon felt a rush of confidence and goodwill as he beheld the sunrise.

Reaching out with his mind, he spoke to his partner-of-mind. _Where are you?_

_Flying, _Saphira answered unbidden. _I'm glad your heart is at peace. The new day had the same effect on me._

_And _I'm _glad for that, _he replied. _Can you come and pick me up so we can go flying together? We haven't done that since we got here, and I could use a bit of wind to clear my mind._

_No. _Before he could protest, she added, _I'm with Arya. We are talking. We have the egg, you have nothing to worry about, and it would be rude for you to intrude upon us._

_Then I would just join in the conversation, _he teased, the reinforcement behind his tone lacking.

_It is too delicate for a male's ears, _she said back, chuckling. Before he could retort with something equally as insulting, she cut off his mind again. _Eat, rest, recover. We will return before long. Until then, your duties to yourself outdo your duties to all others._

She left him to his own thoughts. He scratched at his stubble as he looked towards the area of the sky she had broadcast from, giving her only a moment's thought. He returned to the tent's interior and shaved before trading out his heavy trousers for a lighter, less stiff pair of pants.

As the sun rose higher he the sky he repeated his exercise from the previous day, sprinting around the city of Belatona as quickly as he was able to. As before, he was left roughly breathless and had to calm himself for several moments before he could continue. He proceeded immediately to perform the Rimgar, and again he struggled briefly through the first two levels and was barely able to complete the third. Beads of sweat and shakes of exertion made it extremely difficult for his focus to hold enough to complete the forms necessary, but he forced his body to fight through the effort. He didn't attempt the fourth stage, and spent at least a half hour afterwards stretching, trying to release the tension that seemed eternally locked around his back muscles. Again, the knotted scars restricted his flexibility, but thankfully the continued absence of seizures wasn't broken.

A servant of Nasuada brought him a tray of breakfast, curtsying; he recognized with pride and gratitude that Nasuada had ordered his meal be served without meat. She explained that Nasuada was dealing with internal matters and would not require his presence unless later specified. Eragon thanked the servant and ate the meal as she left, noticing how her eyes lingered on him hungrily as he turned to reenter his tent.

He ate in silent contemplation, relishing the wonderful feeling of the eggs and potato as they slid down his throat. He hadn't realized how long it had been since he had eaten, as he was often so caught up in Saphira's mind he inadvertently shared her habit of devouring food rarely. this turned his thoughts unto how they would feed the dragon when the egg hatched, which turned his thoughts completely onto the egg. There was no way to tell how long it would take to hatch; for the sake of the Varden and himself, Eragon hoped it was soon.

Once his meal was finished he got up and traversed once across the Varden, sporadically bursting into sprints to keep his heart exerting and anxious. He conversed with a few, answered all the respects offered him, spoke courageously to particularly rowdy groups of admirers, and made sure to pass by the command tent. Nothing of importance was occurring, and so he passed on without incident.

By the time he returned to his tent, another meal was laid out waiting for midday and the sun was high in the sky. He ducked under and greedily ate what was left, knowing that sustenance was to be a rarity come the approaching winter. He devoured half of what was on his platter, and took the rest outside. After only a few blocks he met a group of children, and gave what was left to them. With awestruck eyes and murmurs that bespoke fascination, they thanked him and showered him with respects before he forced himself away from their beaming faces, a smile on his own lips, as well. Escaping them only by skirting between tents, he reached his own residence again, and sealed the flap of the tent.

Eragon hesitated a few moments, trying to grasp the possible consequences of his next actions, and then proceeded with deliberation. He placed wards around the tent to halt any form of eavesdropping or surveillance, and also set protective barriers around the fabric of his temporary home. The energy loss was minimal, but it took several minutes before he was content with the forces he had erected to prevent detection of what was about to occur.

He retrieved his pack from where it rested against the headboard of the bed, and then self-consciously checked the wards again. Saphira was withdrawn from his mind, and he was effectively alone. As he had desired.

Eragon reached carefully inside of the pack and removed the brown eldunarí as if it would shatter at any moment. Kneeling in the dirt before his bed, he moved the pack aside and set the stone down on the edge of his mattress, removing his hands to rest them on the bed's edge. For a brief several moments, he stared into the hard, dull light that emanated from within the murky depths of the brilliant object he beheld before him. The evident consciousness that resided inside seemed to call out to him, and it took his breath away as he felt their collective minds brush.

Apprehensive and curious, Eragon slowly reached out and fully mingled with the mind of the dragon.

A rush of adrenaline shot through his system as he came into contact with emotional prowess he had never before experienced. The backlash from his advance was extremely violent, and he only just managed to resist enough to regain his sense of balance. Torrential grief and anguish tore at his thoughts, at the same time as Eragon felt the magnitude of the dragon's mind rescind and retreat behind the protective walls that were a century erected. Within a moment, Eragon's head went from exploding with shared feeling to defending himself from a resigned defensive onslaught.

It took little effort to block the attempts at defense—this was nothing as when he had tried to touched Arya's mind, when she had attacked him with brutality and mercilessness—and he probably could have pushed past what defenses were in place. As it was, however, he retreated a slight ways and, through the connection with the eldunarí, spoke words in the Ancient Language he had spoken before. _I am a Rider and friend._

The offensive push to strike Eragon from the link ceased, but the walls remained up. As he had expected, Eragon felt suspicion permeate the link, for although he could not have lied in the Ancient Language other riders had no doubt touched this mind before, and they had meant much harm. Moments that stretched into minutes of silence, however, yielded only coldness and caution. Just as Eragon was preparing to withdraw, a grumble and groan emanated throughout his head. A gravelly voice of decades silence boomed outward, speaking, as he had, in the ancient tongue. _Riders are no longer friends. You serve evil._

_I do not,_ Eragon replied, and his words could not have been false. _You have only experienced the evils of the king and Murtagh, the red rider. I am the free rider._

_Name yourself, free rider._

_I am Eragon Shadeslayer, son of Brom._

There was a terribly long, heavy silence as the dragon mulled over his words. Finally, the equivalent of a rumbling grunt and deep breath fell through the link, and Eragon felt countless years pass him by as the sensations crashed over him. _Brom's son_, the consciousness repeated. _You carry great strength and power in your name, Shur'tugal. If you are a free rider and Brom is your father you have inherited great footsteps in which to follow. Yet you have already killed a Shade, a feat renowned throughout history._

Eragon remarked to himself about how often inheritance seemed to mock him the more and more he lived. _You knew my father?_

A sigh of remembrance emanated from the dragon. _Yes. He was a fine warrior, and an intelligent mediator. So young before the Fall… and not so young during. If you are his son, he must have survived, yes?_

_He survived the Fall, yes,_ Eragon replied. _But he perished to save my life almost a year ago. His dragon was killed in Ilirea at the city's collapse. _

Crippling pain stabbed at their connection, and Eragon physically gritted his teeth against the sensation. The dragon quickly threw up protective walls around the emotions, more to protect Eragon than to shield the knowledge of the inner emotions. _My apologies, Shur'tugal. I knew Saphira well, and I grieve for her death as I have already so often before. It was false hope that she lived, when no others did._

_Do you know nothing of what has happened?_

_Galbatorix shares nothing with those he violates, _the ancient mind said. _It was all I could do to defend myself uselessly when he tore our secrets from our minds, those of us who foolishly, selfishly used our heart of hearts to escape our fate. Now he uses us for his evils and we are powerless to resist from inside these shells. Are you a captive of him now, Shur'tugal?_

_No, _Eragon replied jubilantly. _And nor are you. You are freed, and now rest with the Varden in Belatona. Murtagh sacrificed himself to free he and his dragon from the spells Galbatorix trapped them with. He brought you with him, and now you are with me. The dark king holds credence over you no longer._

_This pleases me to no end, Shur'tugal__, _the dragon said. True to his word, emotions of relief and somber acceptance seeped through to Eragon's consciousness. Gradually, seconds passed, and their two minds opened up. Images flooded into Eragon's head, of a brown dragon bearing a rider clad in black as they soared about Alagaësia; sweeping over the trees of the elves as they danced and sang their joyous tidings of the world in power; basking in the ocean on a warm summer's evening. All walls disappeared, and the dragon touched Eragon's mind with familiarity. _I am Vindr, son of Hyörge._

_May the stars watch over you, Vindr._

_I have been liberated. From your words, I sinuate that Galbatorix has not been defeated._ Eragon's silence was evidently taken as the confirmation. _How many of my brethren are still captive in their heart of hearts in Galbatorix' chambers?_

_I know not, _Eragon spoke with regret_. __I have never yet seen them, nor do I understand the full extent of his power. _

Vindr's mind groaned. _There were many of us, but I could never tell how many. Our minds are restricted as we lay in these suicidal stones. Only the secrets that are genetic in nature can be kept when we are so defenseless. Galbatorix smashed teems of stones that he could not access or utilize._

_He will pay for his crimes, _Eragon exclaimed angrily, the mental image of the king breaking eldunarí with a twisted sneer etched unto his expression made him want to charge Urû'baen without further hesitation.

_Peace, Eragon Shadeslayer__, _Vindr said. _He will pay. Tell me, Shur'tugal, tell me how you have become a free rider, and tell me of your dragon. Is it in contact this moment?_

And so Eragon opened up his mind and showed the brown heart of hearts images of Saphira, memories of moments encompassing her entire life up to her emergence from her egg in Carvahall, playing out over their escapade across the Empire, the battle beneath Farthen Dûr and Durza's defeat, and culminating in their lessons with Oromis and the sieges of Feinster and Belatona. Vindr wrapped his mind around the visions of her flying through the sky, tilting on the wind, lapping after prey, soaring with Eragon over battlefields and plains and beautiful landscapes.

_So, you share something else with your father, it would seem__, _the dragon said, running through Eragon's memories as if on a track. _She is a beautiful dragon, and were this a different age in time she would already be revered as a master flyer and empress of the wind._

_Did you know my father well? _Eragon asked quietly.

Vindr rumbled. _No. I knew __of __him, not him personally. He and Saphira were of higher years than I.__ Johvönaer and I were young when the Fall encompassed the world. _Memories flashed across his eyes, and Eragon watched an elf, young even by their years, with golden hair that feel to his waists, riding atop Vindr as they soared amongst the clouds, laughter and joy alight on this rider's face instead of the cold hunger and agony that had gripped Eragon at the same stage of his training. _Brom was known widely then, for he created many a stir by hanging from Morzan's arm at any opportunity he received. I cannot imagine the betrayal he must have felt in the end…_

_He slew Morzan in a great battle, _Eragon said, sharing the information he had gleaned from his father, the details sourly lacking. _For a time, I was led to believe that Morzan was my father, for Brom was in love with his mistress, my mother, and I was born in secret. Murtagh is Morzan's son… my half-brother._

_Blood betrays us even in the first times of hope_, Vindr said. _Brom was a great warrior, and his loss will be mourned by the spirits for centuries. _The brown dragon pushed backwards in Eragon's mind, conjuring images of Glaedr and Oromis from his mind, as well. _Ah, Masters. They taught many, and were well known, above all. It gladdens me they survived, and saddens me that they met their demise. Yet it was their time, and before they perished they passed on their knowledge to you._

_Our hope for victory is bleak. Galbatorix has the powers of many hearts behind him, and even if I were to sink to his wicked ways and use them myself, I have but four to my use, two of which I haven't touched and one of my old master, who still resides inside of himself with grief. I dare not impede on his mourning; it would be a grave dishonor._

_Honor, _Vindr said, _is a word of peace. This is war, Shadeslayer._

_If I abandon my honor, I abandon everything that separates me from Galbatorix. I will not become mad and evil as he. Honor and good are all I have left. I will retain them with every fiber of my life until I can fight no more._

_You are wise for your years, as well. Your heart is true, for what little I see of it, and to you I grant the power residing in me, weak as it has become as unmeasured years pass by. For the sake of my kin and the deaths the demon has brought upon the world, I give to you all I can, to be used as you will._

Eragon felt a warmth and trust emanate from the dragon that he had not expected, and also respect. The power behind the convicted feelings was substantial, and threatened to force him to withdraw lest it consume him. At the last moment, he gained hold of his feelings and was able to right himself. _Thank you. Any knowledge of your training that may assist in my struggle would be invaluable._

_I'm afraid that my training and that of my rider didn't far exceed yours, _Vindr replied. _The secrets of gramarye are as lost to myself as they are to you. Only powers I cannot grant you are of my knowledge, and only your dragon may unleash the true potential of what I have to offer._

_I could not even defeat Murtagh in straight combat, _Eragon said. _How can I hope to oppose Galbatorix as weak as I am? Especially when he holds so many hearts in reserve, so much energy on which to base his attacks and defenses? It is an impossible task, when I fight with only power I refuse to take from the consciousnesses wrongly trapped!_

_Strength comes in many forms, Shur'tugal. _Vindr's mind cast a series of images through Eragon's head; flashes of a lightning storm, the whipping of sea currents as they turned water forth, magicks uncreated by man or creature as they influenced the world. _Not all power is easy to see. Strength is even harder to come by._

Questions flung themselves into Eragon's mind. _If I may ask you, what do you know of the Rock of Kuthian?_

The entire mindset of Vindr changed instantly. Hope transformed to anxiety, feelings of peace became turmoil abruptly. Storms bristled in the dragon's mind, and feelings of hostility and suspicion rushed to the forefront of their connection. Eragon again came to the brink of withdrawing, barely holding the link before returning after a moment's hesitation. The force behind Vindr's emotions was frightening, colossal beyond a scale a human's could ever reach, and by the words that had triggered them Eragon felt wary and fearful. _The Rock of Kuthian, _Vindr replied, in a voice crossing between anger, concern, and fear. _Where have you heard of the Rock of Kuthian?_

Eragon stumbled, shielding the prophecy of his fate quickly before it glimpsed out from the depths of his protected memories. _It has become aware to me through several creatures, none of them friend nor foe. Oromis and the elf Saphira and I rescued from Gil'ead both believe it familiar, but neither can remember from where._

Vindr growled, the repercussions of mental motions jarring Eragon's mind. _As well as they shouldn't. It is a secret that they are well to forget, for the fear and dishonor they hold over it._

_You know of it? _Eragon pushed. His mood was apprehensive, but it was clear Vindr was more familiar than all others he had spoken with, and Solembum's advice rang clear in his mind: Go to the Rock of Kuthian and speak your name to open the Vault of Souls.

_The dragons have passed it down throughout the ages, so that its name and its story would not be lost when the elves swore to eradicate it from their papers' memory, _Vindr snarled, anger not at Eragon but at an unseen enemy striking through the words. _It is a secret, guarded like no other, and one you would do well to forget before you inquired of it furthermore._

Eragon flinched. Solembum's words were clear, and he was closer to an answer to the mystery than he had ever been before. _Please… I believe the information I seek may help me as no other would._

_The information you seek would serve you more harm than the power you desire, _Vindr retorted. _Do not dally as others have in blind control and believe you understand the ways of the world! This is not a story you should hear, nor should you press after the silence is spoken._

Eragon could not argue with the dragon's words, but he felt as if he could not forget this meeting after meeting someone who knew what he sought. He warred with himself for several moments between silence or continued interrogation, but knew he would get nothing from the brown dragon against his will. He resigned himself to remain without voice, and tried not to let his disappointment and regret shine through the link.

Full minutes passed, their connection silent and tense on both sides. Finally, Vindr groaned and sighed, and words sprung forth. _Kuthian was an elf, long before the Fall, in the time when elves and dragons still warred with each other. He was their bravest, most reckless and berserk warrior, and the only of which dragons feared facing. His thoughts were of madness, but his mind was cold and calculated. He hated the dragons with his full force of being, and slaughtered with greater passion and fury than any other elf beside him. He did not fight in defense of territory or resource, however; he killed dragons purely for the insanity of sport._

Pure revulsion filled Eragon's heart, and he imagined a white-haired elf cutting through the flanks of dragons, covered in blood, spilling more, and cackling wildly the entire time. Horror filled him as Vindr never hesitated with words.

_In time, even the elves were wary of Kuthian. They watched him with heavy eyes, for thought he was their greatest asset he had the potential to become also their greatest enemy, should he turn on them in his thirst for blood and become a parasitic being that hid between the trees and lashed out to kill all who traversed his path. Despite this fear they held alone in their minds, Kuthian instructed many of their young elves, teaching them of ways he had discovered to kill dragons. Although many of the elven elders disagreed with these notions, many of the younger ones were eager to learn, for in their youth and ignorance they looked up to Kuthian and his bloodstained hands. And so they learned from the twisted warrior all he knew—or, at least, all he cared to share—about his hunts and murders. One of his youngest and most attentive students was an elf named Eragon._

In his mind, Eragon jumped. Vindr absorbed the action with stern acceptance and turned his thoughts so that the two of them more closely touched. He continued, _I see you are aware of the significance. Kuthian was the most brutal and merciless of the elves during Du Fyrn Skulblaka. He killed many and was never touched, and it is said that he laughed a horrible cackle about as he fought. Some said centuries ago that he would have warred endlessly, caring not if the battles came to an end or not as long as he could still kill dragons. Whether this would have occurred or not is unknown, for while eggs were broken the instant they were located by Kuthian's followers, an egg found by Eragon the elf was treasured._

_The rest of _that _story, you know. Kuthian's story ends elsewhere. When the war ended, Kuthian hid himself in Ilirea, furious that a peace had been initiated. He pleaded with the elven monarchs to call off the madness that was the tentative treaty the dragons had agreed to and honored, but his pleas fell unto deaf ears. For what credit his worthless existence is worth, he did not disobey the law of his people and continue to attack dragons._

_When the elves brought forward the spell that bound our species eternally to the dragons, Kuthian underwent an enormous mental change. As his brethren sang the song that would forever merge our blood as one, our memories flowed unbidden and irrevocably between our species. Though there is no doubt, had Kuthian had a choice, that he would have rejected these forces, as an elf he was swept into the spell along with all of his brethren and all of mine. Their minds merged for seconds before they became what they are today._

_Although Kuthian was heartless, he was still an elf. Elves held great love for life, especially beautiful life, and Kuthian had fought against us for our savagery and destruction of life and his own hatred of our existence. When our minds touched, however, Kuthian was exposed to more than what he saw in us; a reality of the dragons, a vision in which we were more than just beasts that slaughtered without hesitation or care, in which we held mates, had traditions, had histories passed down through generations that we trusted each other so much with we recorded it in the only place we felt safe—our minds. He was no fool, he could not deny these things he had seen. And so it became that he discovered just what he had spent his lifetime killing; kindred spirits._

_Nearly as maddened by grief as he had been by passion and hate, Kuthian fled all of his fellows, too shamed to be noticed. It is said that he went to the end of the world, and wept over its edge. His tears pooled together and formed a sea, and when his very soul became lost with his mind in that sea, Kuthian cast his body into the sea, and was no more._

Eragon caught his breath, as the intensity of Vindr's story wilted into silence. He realized that his body was sweating terribly, despite the icy breeze that swept over his tent and the cool air he rested in. Saphira remained distant, and Vindr was now boding after divulging so much information. Eragon nearly jumped when the brown dragon spoke again.

_For its shame, that story has been forgotten by the elves because of the horrors it contains. The dragons cling to it in their hearts to keep it alive, and pass it down throughout the generations. Some know it by instinct, others spend their lives avoiding it, but it is a secret that all dragons uncover before they die._

It took several moments for Eragon to realize he was shaking. _Did Saphira know about this?_ he thought to himself. Trying to stay his body from its unjustified trembling, he reached out to pull Vindr back from brooding and spoke for the first time in minutes. _You have now told me Kuthian's story. But I still do not know what the Rock of Kuthian _is.

Vindr groaned in the depths of their connection, a low, disgruntled sound from a nonexistent throat of centuries in age. _The Rock of Kuthian is said to guard the Vault of Souls._ Eragon's heart leapt, but he stayed silent. _It is an impenetrable passageway, known of body only to those who fashioned it._

_What is the connection to Kuthian himself? _Eragon asked. He tried to hide his racing pulse, but imagined he was as clear as reading a book, so closely were their two minds connected.

_It is legend that to repent for the wrongs he committed to the dragons, Kuthian's mental essence protects the entranceway to the vault with powers lost even to the elves over the thousands of years. None may open, none may pass, none may wrongly enter the Vault of Souls, except for those who understand the requirements for the rock to allow passage._

_What is the Vault of Souls?_

Vindr growled, but answered nonetheless. _All living things reside in one form or another in the Vault of Souls. Their essences thrive there, their minds explore unmolested by creature or phantom or spirit. In perfect harmony with each other, life has the greatest ability to live, and thrive, and exist without interference. It is the most sacred of secrets in the world, and fewer people than there Shadeslayers in the world know it in its entirety._

Eragon took the statement as it was and nothing more. _Where is it?_

_So many questions, Shur'tugal! _Vindr growled with irritation. _A lifetime of questions leads to a passing without answers!_ Immediately, the emotion swarming their link rescinded, and Vindr clearly had a change of thought. _But there were not enough questions asked by the riders when they needed to be answered. That is what led to our downfall. _The brown dragon spoke as if Eragon weren't there, as if he were alone in his mind and was admitting something terrible and revolted. _Very well. I will answer your questions._

Sympathy and gratitude passed between them, Eragon acknowledging the elder essence's hardship. _Where are the Rock of Kuthian and the Vault of Souls?_

Despite his words of admittance, Vindr bristled at the question and withdrew slightly. _That… that I would not tell you even if I knew. Even dragons didn't pursue that knowledge, and those who gave it their thoughts rarely got so far as to fathom guesses. As it were, there is nothing to say the rock definitively exists, for none have ever been there, or if so have not returned to the world to share their discovery. It is as much a mystery to the world as it is a secret. And know, Shur'tugal, that should you go on the journey to discover the vault, you will come back as a form of life you have never before imagined._

The words the brown dragon spoke were worded and backed by so much conviction that Eragon felt a stab of fear as he remembered Solembum's words. Now he had two different essences—one mysterious with a secret life and unknown allegiance, and one wise with years and cautious to tongue—who told him alternatively what to do. He knew neither of them well enough to trust without reason, and although he was skeptical of either viewpoint he shared the mindset that Solembum had offered; he was not as strong as he needed to be, and the werecat had spoken of strength he could find in that mystical place. Vindr clearly knew no more or wouldn't share it if he did, and Eragon would never pry into the dragon's mind to discover the full truth. If he wanted anything more, it would have to come from the other eldunari.

_They will give you no more, and I advise you don't even try to access them. _With a start, Eragon realized that he had been broadcasting his thoughts the entire time, his link with Vindr growing so comfortable and accustomed that his defenses had slipped unknowingly. The horror at his unforgivable mistake infuriated him, but he threw what defenses up that he could immediately, shielding all of his thoughts. Vindr, appearing none the different for the rebuke, continued speaking. _The blue one is Aldaer, an elder of old. Her rider was killed and her mind stripped of coherent thought long ago by the evil Galbatorix. Her madness will only ensnare you until you escape. The other is Binyörn, who was but a hatchling when killed. His grief over his rider's death allowed his mind to be controlled, and he is far worse than death now. They can offer nothing to you, Shur'tugal, and I would leave them be._

Eragon accepted the information with regret and disdain. _Galbatorix' evil hinders me even when he cannot see me and hides leagues away! Even assets I do not yet have are crippled before they reach me._

_Take heart, Shadeslayer, _Vindr rumbled. _Do not lose hope, for if your hope is lost, then hope for all is lost. You have already given me much reason to be joyous after an eon's worth of decay and hate, and what's left of me is already weary with the discussions we have had. It will take another eon to digest the morsels of what I have discovered through you._

They both stirred, and Eragon again experienced a two-way transfer of too many memories for the moment. Snatches, glimpses nearly overpowered him, but he stayed his mind and disciplined himself to control it. _Then, with your permission, I will take my leave of you, Vindr-elda._

_You hold no necessity to address me as master, Shur'tugal. You have already done more than any rider of my age ever would have. Remember my words, and heed them as you will. _A rush of something like gratitude surged into Eragon from the brown dragon, accompanied by words of strength and endearment. _In times of struggle and necessity, you may use my essence and what's left of my strength as you would, and fear not of the consequences._

Eragon, slightly taken aback by the offer, blinked several times as a physical body before having enough sense to express himself to the brown dragon in mind. _Thank you. I will use what I take not in vain, but in justice._

_I ask only this of you, then, Eragon Shadeslayer, son of Brom… when you have unseated and killed the traitorous eggbreaker Galbatorix, do that which I am powerless to do. Break my heart of hearts, and allow me to join my beloved rider once more._

The request caught Eragon completely off-guard. He had never expected such a thing, and the loss of words he found himself at wasn't able to erase itself for a matter of moments. Looking across Vindr's vast, yet not so vast as to be forgotten, life, he had never imagined the brown dragon would ever desire to cease living. Putting it into perspective, however, he realized that if Saphira were to exist for a century without him, she would beg for her death. Vindr was offering himself as sacrifice, only with the knowledge that once he was no longer required he could rest in the only way he desired any longer.

_I promise you I shall, _Eragon said, his oath binding him.

He felt Vindr's acceptance and gratitude. _Then until you call upon me again, Shur'tugal, may the stars watch over you and may your feet be quick and your sword stay sharp._

The brown dragon's mind withdrew from Eragon's, and along with it went every memory of Vindr's that they had shared. For a brief few moments, Eragon felt as if his entire soul was being sucked clean from his body, rushing out through his head touched by a tinge he would almost classify as painful. With a final rush, Vindr's final tendril of thought separated itself and fled, and Eragon became himself and only himself once more. His eyesight returned to corporeal senses, and his ears became aware of the sounds around him.

His body was soaked with dry sweat. The brown stone sitting in front of him was the same as it had been throughout their entire ordeal—only now, if he hadn't known better, Eragon would have said it shone a little brighter. With the briefest difficulty, he climbed to his feet and flexed his knees. The joints were sore with inactivity but quickly flashed back to their regular movement and ability. He felt weary in his head but his body remained stiff, and he stretched quickly to loosen the stiffness locked inside of his muscles. Carefully, he picked up Vindr's eldunari and replaced it with the others—Aldaer and Binyörn—and stowed the pack beneath his bed, placing a quick spell around it so he would be comforted that no servant would accidentally stumble upon and disturb it.

He exited his tent and was surprised to find the sun glinting in downward motion. He hadn't realized how long he had spoken with Vindr, but the afternoon was in high wane. It was nearly cold enough outside for him to catch his breath on the air, and men rushed about as much to complete their tasks as to keep warm in their thin layers. He flexibly reached out his mind, for its exercise as much as his wariness. When he discovered that all was as well as when he had entered his tent, he set off to find Saphira.

It took him nigh on an hour, searching only with his mind and continuing at a comfortable man's walking pace, to find her amongst the hills, miles beyond the Varden's camp. She sat on her haunches, head raised like a cat, while the sunlight glinted off her sapphire scales and reflected evermore outward. The egg sat barely between her forelegs, and the sun glanced off of it nearly as brilliantly as from Saphira's body. Arya sat beside her and the egg in the grass, looking as relaxed as Eragon had ever seen her outside of Ellésmera, and together elf and dragon watched the sun as it spiraled downward, giving no indication that they noticed his approach or that he was unwelcome.

He was not addressed, nor did there seem to be activity between the minds of the two females. He waited several moments to be addressed, but when they ignored him as carefully as before he lingered to one side and sat down on Arya's right, opposite Saphira. He joined their watching congregation, staring off towards the horizon and feeling the air tumble over their bodies.

_Hello, little one._

_Hey there_. She turned her to face him and he smiled at her. He knew she could sense his exhaustion, but ignored the curiosity that peaked through their minds. _What have you been up to this whole time?_

_Speaking with the elf. She has an interesting lot to say._

_Glad to see you enjoyed yourself, _he teased, half-amused and half-jealous.

Saphira examined him from head to toe, using her mind as much as her eyes. _What kept you busy? I sensed something strange through us, but I didn't feel pain or grief and so I did not interfere._

Eragon looked into her large, blue eyes. _Is she actually talking? _He inclined his mind towards Arya, and Saphira nodded. _I would rather tell you both aloud. _He cleared his throat and shielded his thoughts from both of them. Before he got a chance to find the phrases he meant to speak, however, Arya cut him off and spoke ahead of him.

"I will be leaving tomorrow for Farthen Dûr. It is impossible to predict when the egg will hatch, and I am unsure what will become of me when the fighting resumes. Islanzadi may choose another to bear the egg or maybe she will not and I will not participate in the battles. If the egg hatches quickly, you will obviously be needed to train the new rider as much as supervise the Varden here."

Eragon's mouth still hung open with his prepared reiteration, and he closed it sharply as her words cascaded over him. He felt as though his body had just been sheathed in ice; abruptly, the wind felt much, much colder than it had been before. He took a deep breath and formed together words of well-wishing in his mind. They disappeared, however, as dismay gripped him in a horribly strong vice. "You're leaving so soon?"

She turned her head to face him, and he looked away quickly, so quickly it hurt his neck, so that they would not make eye contact. He knew his words betrayed personal feeling and hated himself for letting them slip out. The act was done, however, and he had only left to hear her reprimanding reaction. "I cannot waste time. We have only until the spring season before we attack and there is much to be done without having a new rider appear and having to train it. Every second I already delay allows Galbatorix to grow stronger as we do not. I must depart as soon as possible."

"Oh," Eragon said dumbly. His mood was instantly negative, as he realized that his moments with the elf may be numbered. Depending on the Varden's success in the spring and the egg's status, he may not see her again before he faced Galbatorix, a prospect he feared as much as resented.

_Were you not about to tell us of your day, little one? _Saphira reminded him, and all of the day's events came back to his mind. In his unhappiness at Arya's departure he had completely forgotten them. Now they came crashing back, and Eragon sifted through them half-heartedly, as if he had lost the passion for the fantastic knowledge he had just gleaned. Before Saphira had the opportunity to chastise him, however, he forced his emotions behind him and became cold and calculating. Any sadness was forgotten the moment he told them of his happenings.

"I contacted one of the eldunari today."

Both of them snapped their heads to him, and Arya gripped the grass with knuckles that instantly whitened. "Barzûl, Eragon! You foolish human! Why would you ever do such a thing alone?"

The look she glared at him made him shrink back. Saphira's eyes were as wild as the sun. "Why wouldn't I? Are they not now our greatest assets to be explored? Neither of you two would speak with me, and I am a rider. I have done nothing wrong."

Arya shook her head, angered beyond anything Eragon had seen since Nasuada's installation as the leader of the Varden. "You _fool_, Eragon… The essence of a dragon is the most powerful natural thing in this world, so powerful that should human minds touch it they could be torn apart at will. To contact one you had no knowledge of without me—especially without _Saphira_—was a horrible risk."

_If a dragon's body is feared by almost all creatures, even its allies, _Saphira added, _then why would its mind be any less fearsome?_

"Its name was Vindr, and he thought I was Murtagh," Eragon replied quietly. His voice had the desired effect; Arya's face instantly softened and Saphira intense fury diminished. "I got past his defenses despite strikes to repel me, and was able to speak my name long enough so that he listened."

_He was a Rider's dragon? _

"Aye. His elf was killed in the Fall, and Galbatorix forcibly took all of his knowledge from his mind in the eldunari before giving it to Murtagh to use for its power. He had no inkling of what exists today in the world, because Galbatorix and Murtagh were the only beings he has come into contact with in a century, and they committed only crimes against him."

Arya stirred, and a sigh escaped her lips. "Your task was still foolish, but it seems you were fortunate enough to have the eldunari of a loyal dragon. You were in contact this entire time with him? What were you speaking of?"

"A great deal. We both had many questions." And so Eragon told them all that had occurred since the moment he and Vindr had first touched minds. He shared flashes of the memories of the brown dragon he still possessed as well as some of his own, granting visuals and images to them both where his words failed him. As he spoke of the tale of Kuthian and all of the implications Vindr had spoken of he became more reserved, only revealing all of the details to Saphira through the narrowest link in their mind. He finally finished explained the legend of the Rock of Kuthian and reminding Arya of Solembum's prophecy.

The elf sighed again when his words were complete. "You were very fortunate indeed to stumble across this information, but I cannot see how it will yet help you unless you know exactly where the Rock is or intend to search every inch of Alagaësia for it. Even that will not help you if the werecat's words were false."

"And I don't even know my true name," Eragon admitted.

"Nor that," Arya continued. Her eyes had taken on a strange trait, and she was staring at him no longer with ice but with caution and worry. "For the horrible risk you have undertaken, you have gained little that is of use, powerful knowledge or useless superstition as it may be."

_I cannot believe you would do such a thing without me, _Saphira growled. _What if it had been a dragon of the Forsworn? Or a _wild _dragon? Where would be then, with your mind trapped inside of a rock where I was powerless to defend you?_

"It wasn't, Saphira," he said. "I'm fine. I learned something of importance. Stop chastising me for doing something right."

_But it wasn't right. You just got lucky._

Eragon ignored her, watching instead as Arya drew her legs up that they were pressed against her chest, wrapping her arms around them as she rested her chin atop her knees. "He is right, Eragon. What you did today was foolhardy and reckless. Because you can hold your own against one eldunari does not mean you could do so against another, especially one much older and much more powerful. Your mind is the most precious thing, Eragon, you know this. You must protect it as you would Saphira were she at risk."

"She would not hesitate herself," he replied, glaring at his dragon. She met his stare with equivalent ferocity. "If she had been in my place, it wouldn't have matter whether I was there or not. She would have entered the eldunari without a second thought."

"But she is a dragon," Arya replied. Her eyes were off by the sunset again, her voice somewhat distant. A long, exhausted sigh ruffled from her lips, and Eragon felt the energy leave her body. "Oh, Eragon… you risk so much when there is so little to gain. It _worries _me when you go off on your own ideals so often as you do; who will watch over you when I am away, when Saphira is hunting or flying? Someone will have to be around to make sure you do not accidentally trip whilst pacing and spear yourself on your blade."

Saphira chuckled dryly but Eragon didn't find it humorous. The sour taste in his mouth Arya had contributed with the reminder of her departure only increased his depression. He didn't have the energy to argue or retort, however, and simply stared with unhappy eyes towards the sunset, hoping she didn't notice his upset but making no serious attempt to hide it.

"I hope the egg hatches quickly. Another rider, no matter how young and inexperienced, would raise our odds significantly in the war. And I have treasured our time together like no other."

Several moments passed before Eragon realized that it had been he who had spoken, and that Saphira's mind was screaming caution at him. His mouth hung open as he realized what he had said, and he slammed it shut quickly, trying to find solace in the grass, anywhere except the lapse in his judgment and words.

Yet Arya's only reaction was to smile, the expression so unexpected that Eragon's jaw hung open once again. Her eyes never left the sunset, but her tone was calm. Peaceful. "As have I. We shall both hope for a timely reunion."

Eragon glanced uneasily at Saphira. _What have I done? Why does she mock me?_

_She does not, _Saphira replied, and there was an amused twinkle in her eyes as her large head swiveled to face him. _Her words are the truth. She values your company as you value hers. Think it yourself; she doesn't have many others around to spend her time with. And you should be grateful you are granted her audience as much as you are._

Eragon narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously. _What have you two been talking about?_

_It is not my place to say. It is mostly her business. You shall have to ask her._

_Thanks_, he grumbled sarcastically. Aloud, he said, "And with hope, Arya Svit-kona, let this egg bear a wiser dragon than the last."

Saphira's roar of indignation drowned out the sound of Arya's magical laughter, but nonetheless Eragon felt its beautiful ripples on the air as clear as if on a silent sunrise. And even the feeling of longing and regret in his soul could not suppress his joy as she tossed her head in the wind, eyes so clearly content as they locked unto his.


	21. 20: Emerald Emergence

**Cue the cliché avalanche.**

**Thanks to reviewers: RestrainedFreedom, Sorrows Equinox, LOTRfan, Tsukune08, KyuuinShinkei, The Meepsta, The Pro, Wolfyman123, theonewhobreathesfire, kmc995, Cara Meirfert, Addictedforlife and Sable1212.**

**Disclaimer: No, never, and what not.**

**20**

**Emerald Emergence**

A clap of dragon's thunder tore the night apart.

Beside her, Eragon yelped and leaped clean over her in his scurry out of the bed. She sat up instantly, pulling at the dagger she held in her sleep, eyes sweeping around the Rider's dark tent to find what had caused the disturbance. Sweeping her legs from beneath the blankets that they rested under so she could more properly defend herself, her back arched in an aggressive crouch as she prepared to slay foul attackers and creatures.

With a start, as Eragon found Brisingr and swiveled to face the bed again, she realized that the noise had come _from_ the bed, beneath them as they slept as far apart as possible while still retaining their balance on the edges. A course of fear swept through her, as well, when she realized that there was a conspicuous weight missing from her hip; she hadn't grabbed the egg when she leapt from the bed herself!

The moon was bright that night, enough so that it was clear through the roof of the tent, shining in the sky and sinking through the fabric to alight the interior in a shady glare. Its dim shine was the only light Arya needed to perfectly capture the room with her eyes, no detail or movement ignored or unseen. Under the moon's illumination, her sense were on hyper-alert, and her heart rate accelerated as she searched for the egg.

It sat still half-atop and half-wrapped amongst the sheets, having rested between them for the hours of the night, neither fully accepting of the others' presence. For a time, the air was silent, Eragon poised to attack and Arya confused and cautious. Whatever the gargantuan cracking sound had been, it did not show itself, nor make any sign that it was repeating. She and the rider exchanged a glance of worry and wariness, but still made no move towards the bed. She became aware of Saphira, situated in the opening to the tent at their backs. Without turning, she knew that the dragon was ready, talons kneading the dirt.

She had not accompanied him to his tent this night, intending to spend it on her own for the first time since before the battle that gave him his newest scars. With the reality of her duties attaining a new gravity as her departure approached, it embarrassed her that she had allowed her guard down so much as to allow herself to share a bed with _anyone_, even if it was Eragon and it was merely a companionable gesture. So she had taken the egg, wrapped herself up in blankets meant to substitute strong arms that one held her as she slept, and tried to sleep in her own bed.

She tossed once before she found her feet carrying her off the bed, egg tucked carefully into her arms, and out of her tent. She knew without knowing where he mind was taking her, and she felt both anger and relief that it was. She knew she should resist and return to her tent even if it meant a sleepless and uncomfortable night—she _wanted _to resist and return to her tent—yet she wouldn't allow herself to turn around and make the repeat trek. She didn't stop her feet as they carried her into his tent unannounced and lied down beside his already dozing form. She hated the way her eyes slid closed and sleep took her in open arms the moment she settled onto the mattress, facing the rider for a change with the egg lying on the sheets between them…

And now the egg was forgotten in her haste to defend herself. She cursed quickly and made one step towards the bed when a creaking noise became prominent. Eragon rustled from where he stood ten feet away but made no move to draw Brisingr. Arya turned towards the egg again, ready to jump forward and seize it the moment she knew she could without falling victim to the mysterious sounds.

She felt her breath hitch as a line appeared in the egg's emerald surface. She took a step forward, believing the occurrence to be a magical apparition, and prepared to destroy whatever being was attempting to destroy the dragon inside. Her dagger was brandished, but there were no enemies to destroy. The egg lay untouched atop the bed, and after her second step she suddenly found that she could not take a third; her legs had locked, frozen in time, bidden instinctively by her brain. Saphira was humming intensely in the background, a bracing sound that jarred her mind.

Tiny faults began to branch out from the main crack she saw, splitting the shell into little splinters continuously. The etches became more unstable as every second passed and there became more of them, and a chip of their creation broke off from the rest of the exterior and teetered on its rigged edge before it slowly fell off. Arya's breath collapsed in her chest as her elven eyes glimpsed movement inside the miniscule hole the chip had made, and she physically jumped in surprise as a squeak burst forth from the egg. Scraping sounds became evident on the air, and Arya's approach changed rapidly into a retreat, almost stumbling. Eragon had to catch her by the arm to prevent her running from the tent. Something more terrible than fear, more exhilarating that elation held her in its grips.

The egg wobbled and rolled forward unexpectedly, toppling to the ground where it kept moving forward. Arya rushed over to stop its movement, but it halted on its own, as if by a magical force, and she withdrew again. Sitting in place, the blemished green stone seemed to rock back and forth in rapid trembling, before finally coming to a stop in the center. The scraping and the squeaking stopped.

A moment passed, and, with her breath caught in her throat, the world was silent.

Then the egg exploded.

Spontaneously, without a light to accompany the blast, the shell splintered and shot outward in pieces. Giant scraps careened outward, splitting into smaller chunks as they did. Arya threw up her hands to protect her face as little chips cascaded into her form. A sticky membrane-like substance came with them, and splashed against her arm. The onslaught of tiny fragments and covering was over as soon as it had begun, and she removed her arms to survey the scene ahead. Eragon, who had received less of the blast than her, was beginning to do the same.

She found herself trembling as her eyes traced the ground of chips towards the apex of the destruction. For once in her experience, Eragon seemed perfectly calm—calmer than her—but that could be attributed to the fact that of all the people in Alagaësia, he was probably one of only three whom had directly witnessed such an event before. With this knowledge in her mind, reinforcing the actuality of what was happening, she allowed her eyes to slide upwards, towards where the egg had last rested.

An emerald dragon hatchling, tiny scales glittering in the nonexistent amount of light entering the tent, raised its head amongst all of the shards of egg littering the ground around it. Its spines detached themselves from its back as it stood, shooting to precarious, dangerous position. Claws on its legs gripped the ground with conviction, testing new abilities as they became known to it. It was no longer than her forearm, but it stretched and rippled as if it were as grand as Saphira. It was as green as she was blue, and, in Arya's opinion, twice as majestic. A tongue lapped at its forepaws briefly before the realization that it wasn't alone must have sunk in.

It blinked several times, as if testing out its eyesight, and then swiveled its serpentine neck around. Green eyes crashed into blue as its gaze locked unto Saphira's, who resided more than twenty feet away. Next, it turned towards Eragon, who was grasping Brisingr's scabbard so hard that Arya wouldn't have been surprised if he dislocated his joints. The beautiful green creature surveyed the dragon rider for several long moments, with the eye of assessing a threat. Finally, when it seemed content with both human and dragon, it cast about to explore the rest of the room with its stare, and it finally became aware of Arya.

She felt completely naked beneath the gaze of this tiny creature, completely irrationally. For a being that had existed for over a century to feel intimidated by one that had for only a few moments was without cause and discomfiting, but nevertheless, that was the feeling that struck her immediately. Its emerald eyes, more fierce than her own and just as striking as its scales, seemed to bore into her, not without passion but striking a cord at the back of her mind that resembled her soul.

As quickly as it had turned to her, the dragon surveyed them all as a group, and none of them moved. Arya released her apprehension and fear in a deep breath. She could only imagine how she appeared at the moment, terrified and excited at the same moment, knowing how to deal with neither or what to do. Saphira and Eragon were both still, but she was sure they were having a wild exclamation through their connection.

All of a sudden, as if anew, Arya realized what was occurring—what already _had _occurred. "It hatched… for me."

As if broken from a reverie, Eragon snapped his face towards her, regarding her with wonder briefly before regaining his senses. She tried to hide her anxiety from him, but it was clear from the look he gave her that he was perfectly aware of how she felt. Unbidden, she tried to reach out to his mind, but found it impenetrable, so different from the unguarded consciousness he usually laid open for her.

Before either of them could make another move, the hatchling growled at a high frequency and began to shuffle tentatively towards Eragon. Eragon recoiled fiercely, yelping, sending the hatchling scurrying back a few steps. The creature tripped over itself and rolled into a heap, nipping and barking as it landed.

Arya glared at Eragon, who was now crouching at the far end of the tent, as far as he could possibly get from the dragon. She reached out to him again but found him just as untouchable as before. Aloud, she murmured, "Do not frighten it."

"It wasn't meant to frighten it," Eragon retorted, sounding harsh and startled himself. "Have you ever before heard of a rider with _two_ gedwëy ignasias?" His words met sudden comprehension in her mind, and she admonished herself for having forgotten such an important detail. "None may touch it until you do. It is destined for you."

Understanding his meaning, she turned again the face the hatchling. It was climbing from the heap it had landed in, regaining its balance and righting itself, still staring off towards Eragon. As Arya turned to face it, however, it turned towards her gaze and its body abruptly went rigid. Locked frozen, it appeared almost fearful, surrendering not an inch in any direction and glaring as fiercely into her as she was compassionately regarding it.

For several moments she couldn't bring herself to move. The time was endless; she regarded it as she regarded exactly what was about to happen to her. Her mind would never again be alone; her thoughts would also be another's, eternally. It would not be like the bond shared between mates, where secrets did not exist. She had experienced such a bond before, and knew that its truth was undeniable… yet this would be more. This would be as if she were not herself but another as well, as if the consciousness of this young dragon and her own were one and the same. Their connection would be so vast that it would be impossible to ignore. She would never again be alone.

Her thoughts encompassing this matter were so intense that she was barely aware of her surroundings until Eragon called her name aloud. Her head snapped towards him sharply, eliciting no movement from the hatchling. His face was concerned, strained, but as she turned to him she watched a small grin spread across his features. "In the ways of dragons," he said, speaking quietly and with deliberate patience. "I've found sometimes that it's best just not to think."

Recognizing his words, his encouragement—and simultaneously wondering how he had so easily understood what she was thinking—she turned back to the emerald creature that sat in front of her. It had yet to move since becoming still, and it seemed again as if they could see more in each other than either was comfortable with. The thoughts that had plagued her before threatened to return, but with the reinforcement of Eragon's words behind her Arya battered them back, proceeding regardless of mental warnings. There was no fighting a dragon.

She lowered herself to her knees and slowly moved forward, the fabric of her trousers rustling against the dirt of the ground as she pushed towards the unmoving hatchling. The distance between them closed, her motion slower and slower the closer she got. Their eyes, hers and the little dragon's, never left each other's as she moved.

When there was no more than two feet left from her knees to the clenched claws of the dragon, Arya stopped. There was a moment where they simply stared at one another, this remarkable beast and the beautiful elf. As if holding the weight of the world, Arya raised her magic-wielding hand and offered it out towards the dragon. She moved it close, but the dragon made no motion to intercede, touch, bite, or otherwise disrupt it.

Eragon and Saphira stared on as she waited, as the dragon continued its stubborn glare into her. Her fingers halted an inch from its nose, but still it made no move. Slowly, finally, it cocked its head to one side, an almost human gesture that looked completely foreign on a dragon's body.

Before she could understand what was happening or resist it, Arya laughed. It was short, happy, unrestrained, and she made the note completely on a whim of humor that was spontaneously perfect. With a horribly start that wrenched her body to a standstill, she realized what had happened and sucked in a breath. She dared not move, locked as in place as the dragon had been, hesitating only to see how the dragon would react to the rash chord her throat had struck against her will.

To her surprise, she saw amusement crackle in the dragon's eyes, as best she understood it, and the whole hatchling seemed to relax. In the space of the briefest of seconds, she saw something in the tiny eyes that she had not seen for so long she had almost forgotten it. It locked inside of her mind as feelings long dormant shot into her system, adrenaline rising with them.

As these motions set to wind in her head, horribly awakening her from a physical sleep far too strong to be natural, the dragon inched forward and brushed her palm with its snout.

For the second time that night, Arya's world exploded.

* * *

><p>And his back has given him no difficulties? <em>Arya inquired gently, settling herself in the grass overlooking the plains past Belatona. <em>I have worried for him. Suffering another wound as grievous as those he has sustained in the past is a frightful prospect, for both he as our rider and he as an individual.

His back is not what ails him these days, _Saphira replied. For once in her experience, the dragon did not attempt to meet the elf's eyes as she spoke so blatantly with high emotion. Almost accusatory emotion. Saphira tore at the soil for a few moments with her claws before lowering herself next to Arya, comfortably so that they were both facing the same direction._

_Arya deliberately ignored the harsh tone. _And what is on his mind these days, then?

The usual things human males trouble themselves with, _Saphira groaned in reply. Arya understood her discomfort. It was quite disconcerting, as her time as ambassador proved, for a woman to keep pace with the apelike and inefficient minds of men. _War, glory… women… fear. He doesn't sleep peacefully anymore. Although I'm sure you've noticed that…

_The note of insinuation was not lost on the elf. _Yes.

_As if to make up for her lapse earlier, Saphira turned eyes towards Arya. _I am curious, Emerald Eyes. I would never ask you in Eragon's presence, and so as he always seems to be around when you and I hold audience, I have not before. However, it is high time I received an answer, I think, to a question that causes me, through him, no end of grief: exactly what are your feelings and intentions towards my rider?

_Arya stiffened. The question was unwelcome, if not for the reason that she was as lost to the answer as the dragoness beside her. She had not the faintest idea why she continued to spend nights in Eragon's tent, now curling onto his mattress while he slept mere _feet _away. It was action that could be considered inappropriate, and she knew it as such. Had she learned of anyone else doing what she was doing every night and morning, she would not have allowed it. And so why was it different for her?_

He is my friend, _she answered stiffly at length. She found truths speaking without her consent, and quickly restrained her tongue, carefully regulating what exited her mind in the Ancient Language. _He is the only companion I have, the only acquaintance who will yet speak with me deeply without judging me. I have grown quite fond of his company. _The scrutiny of Saphira's gaze forced her onward. _As is obvious by my actions, I trust him more than any other.

_The dragoness was clearly displeased by the answer. _I feel as if you are batting around the words, yet there is no need. I ask you not in urging, but in concern. I cannot deny you his company if it helps you to be comfortable with recent events. You must also know, however, that every second of your presence in his tent is a torture befit for the eggbreakers of my sacred beginnings. His heart aches for you, yet when you are there the distance between you is agony beyond even the scars Durza could inflict upon him. You must know this.

_Despite all her greatest efforts to the contrary, Arya flinched horrifically, and immediately cursed inwardly that Saphira was aware of the motion. Resistance was futile in the depths of her mind; the pain and regret the dragon's sentences caused was rippling and powered by guilt and the acknowledgement of selfishness. She should have known what her presence was doing to him, and she shouldn't have allowed herself to continue to seek his company when she was aware of the pain he endured in silence. But no, that was a lie in itself; she knew exactly the pain he was in… yet she still went to him and allowed herself to pace her sleeping heart rate by his breathing. Why?_

He has grown strong since we first met, _Arya said to Saphira._

_Saphira grunted. _Yet his worries are his strength, and, as he so calls it, his lack of it. His defeat at the hands of Murtagh hangs low over his head. He regards it as a complete failure, and is convinced that all hope is lost until he can find a way to match Galbatorix's might spell for spell. Therefore, all he sees in himself is weakness.

That in itself is a weakness, _Arya replied sharply. _He must see the strengths inside of himself before he can separate them from and fix the flaws. His mind is clouded by loss. There is no choice but to learn to overcome his own mind. He will become stronger simply by that act.

But even that is asking a dragon's power of him, _Saphira said. _He has the lives of a world on his hands, in a position he has known for less than a year and not yet become accustomed to. Think of it through his eyes; you've had a hundred years to adjust to your place in this process, but he was thrust in without provocation or asking for his point. He looks a man, Arya, but appearances cannot fool my eyes—he is still a boy. A boy who is more the man than any other human alive, but a boy just the same. And the world is asking him to abandon all of his boyish dreams and whims and become a heartless warrior so they can kill the king only possibly to take his place. Do they even understand the burden they place upon him, when they spent the first months of his training despairing that I had hatched for a human child?

_Arya was silent. She had considered all of the things for which Saphira spoke, but had forced herself to change the subject before there was ample opportunity to examine the situation with the detail and light the dragoness' words shed on it, for the exact reason that had been stated. It was unfair to force this upon him, cruel for a nation of lives to ask so much of him while he received nothing in return. Yet she considered it merely another sacrifice to an unrewarding end, another thing that a good being gave up for the greater good, as countless elves and Varden had done before him._

_Eragon's force went beyond other sacrifices, though, and she had known it. That was why she so staunchly ignored it. Eragon no longer had a home to defend, or a family to cherish besides his grown cousin and wife. Ellésmera was no more his home than was Urû'baen, and even Farthen Dûr must have seemed a distant palace to him now. He had no place, no property, both items humans valued above almost all things, nor a woman to call his own, children to protect and love and watch grow, or the opportunity to release irrational tension through time spent with those who enjoyed his company for a reason other than his status. Instead, for Eragon, there were only bodies left behind, failure at his forefront and a million lives for which to seek vengeance. And it was depriving him of the life that, just a year ago, he was destined to enjoy._

Were Riders not allowed to be happy, too? _Saphira added._

_The elf raised her head from where she had been staring mournfully at the ground, to where she could observe the sun slowly making its way across the glorious sky. _These are the same times. Sacrifices must be made. _Every _sacrifice must be made, until Galbatorix lays dead in a hole and Alagaësia is free once more.

Yet he needs so little to make him happy.

_Arya felt herself clench in the chest. _It is not possible.

_Saphira scoffed. _He has not even continued his advances towards you, as you requested him to break off. He has held his ground, he has kept every promise. Yet all of a sudden _you_ are the one that seeks _his_ company, and you still refuse to acknowledge even a shred of the pain he endures for you when you keep him up the night for your mere proximity.

I am grateful to him that he no longer pursues me, _Arya replied carefully. For some reason, her words became stumbling as she forced them out, as if passing through in the Ancient tongue was suddenly more difficult. _It shows maturity he did not before possess. Even if he did, it is both impractical and impossible. Decades span the difference in our ages alone, and I had seen more of the world before he was born than most humans do in a lifetime.

_Saphira's blue eyes were blazing suns as they arched towards Arya's, the dragoness' neck craning to glare at her in a grotesque and mildly impressive twist of flexibility._ And you think he spent the past year indoors? In battle and loss, he has seen enough to outstrip the sane minds of most men, and quite a few elves, if I have understood the beauty of your minds correctly. You cannot hide behind that petty excuse any longer, elf.

_Feeling bristling inwardly, Arya fought the urge to tremble as the effort of containing herself became physical. _He and I cannot be. That is that.

So, for all of your dealings coming to his tent, the comfort you find in him, the peace you find as you listen to him breathe in the middle of the night, all of these things, your feelings remain unchanged… _Disgruntlement and frustration crashed upon Arya's mind as Saphira's words carried them, heavy with the betrayed emotion and accompanied by groans with the effort of conveying them._

_For several long moments, Arya weighed her words carefully. Finally, when Saphira had grown quiet and calm again, the elf replied, _It is not as simple as that. He cannot be distracted when our goals are yet so near. To throw his focus for even the briefest of times would be unacceptable, and I would prevent _anyone_ from doing that. For the greater good of what we fight for.

_Saphira growled. _Then for all the bonds we share, even I cannot cure Eragon's loneliness.

_Arya shivered, the numb equivalent of anguish in her intentionally cold body, but refused to show outward emotion. _Until Galbatorix is killed—until Eragon slays the dark king—we all make the worst sacrifice. He cannot be distracted by something as trivial as women, nor shall he; he is more mature than that. Until we do what my people and the Varden have spent a century planning, our happiness is forfeit.

_There was no immediate return, and the two females lapsed into silence. Several minutes later, when Arya had all but forced herself to forget the conversation, Saphira swiveled to face her and fixed her with a calculating look befit for an elf. _By refusing Eragon, _your_ happiness is forfeit?

* * *

><p>It was pain. Raw pain.<p>

She had handled plenty of pain in her life, so much so that she was beginning to doubt there were new ways for herself to experience it. Nothing she had ever before encountered, however, compared with the agony that rushed through her when she brushed the snout of the green dragon, the dragon that had hatched for _her_. It wasn't like when Durza had first slain her mate and then mocked her for months with the knowledge, refusing her the avenues and abilities to kill herself. It didn't strike with the Shade's serpent tongue, eating at her every pore and vein and muscle like a venom of the heart, tearing at the very fabric of her being and shredding her flesh alive before sewing it back together again, no… It was nothing like the pain she had suffered at Durza's hand.

It was worse.

The moment the skin of her own hand and that of the magnificent creature connected, fire worse than any other she had ever beheld rocketed through her body quicker than a dragon could fly. She would have cried out, but she lost her senses so quickly she wasn't sure if she just couldn't hear herself scream or if she had actually not made a sound. Either way, she was totally unaware of anything except for her own agony as the power of the gedwëy ignasia spread throughout her body, and of that pain she was very aware in deed.

Her body could've been convulsing or she could have been unconscious the entire time. She had no way of knowing. There was no sense of physicality in the pain, only recognition that it was _everywhere_ and within her knowledge there was no way for her to escape from her. It wracked at her, made her want to find her eyes and spread liquid tears fiercely from them, but she could not. In all of her readings and meticulous studies of scrolls depicting this moment in elven history, never had she read anything that betrayed this moment in a rider's beginning as anything nearly as horrible as this.

Spurred on by the torment, memories of every horrible moment in her life flung themselves to the forefront of her mind. The losses of her loved ones. The realities of her failures. Before her mind's eye, again she watched those she loved die. She begged her mind to release her from the torture, but it would not. She fought against the onslaught of remembrance but was no stronger than an ant was against a mountain. Faolin skewered by an arrow. Murtagh's blade slicing through Eragon's back. Her conjured version of her father's execution at the Forsworns' blade. Faolin skewered again.

It felt like centuries past, her most precious and guarded weaknesses blitzing through her mind's desperate defenses against itself, shooting into her head and stabbing like daggers into her mind. She was completely defenseless to stop it, and could do nothing but lie in suffering as the memories crashed down upon her one by one and then one by one again, until what the dragon had started seemed to have neither a beginning nor an end.

* * *

><p>That was <em>not<em> what I meant, _Arya replied quickly. Her eyes snapped towards Saphira, willing the dragon to understand that she spoke the truth—willing _herself _to understand that she spoke the truth. _As a people, the Varden's happiness is forfeit. We have already discussed that matter, along with Eragon, since the beginning of this entire conflict. That has not changed.

So you only meant, _Saphira prodded, making physical gestures with her neck as she spoke in Arya's mind, _that you could not find it in yourself to be happy until the war is over and you are freed from your responsibilities.

Responsibilities are ever present, _Arya replied quickly. _They never disappear. What you say is somewhat true; there _will_ be less of duty as opposed to happiness when the war ends, but my responsibility to my queen and people will never truly be over, I fear. In that way, especially now, I must give my personal contentment in life a lower priority over the good of the Varden.

_Saphira grunted deeply at the words, and her lungs heaved a great sigh of air as they continued to survey the land together. _It is not worth living, in war or in peace, if you are not living for a reason to be happy.

But I am, Saphira, _Arya replied. _I am living so that I can walk the plains of Alagaësia without need to hide or disguise myself. I yearn to be at peace and make human friends who do not feel the need to carry their sword every which way they travel. _She paused. After a moment's deliberation, she added, _I yearn to be happy. No matter the steps I take, however, every path to that route doesn't reach its conclusion without paving over Urû'baen first.

_Again, the dragoness was silent for several long moments, weighing Arya's words in her mind and carefully sculpting a reply before just as precariously delivering it. _Happiness comes in many forms, Emerald Eyes. You have lived many more suns than I, and you know this without needing me to tell you so. In war, you may still find your contentment.

_Arya rejected the words, on instinct, out of fear. Fear of what, she couldn't say, but in any case she kept her doubt and her revulsion to herself. _Perhaps. But, Bjartskular, what good is that happiness when I know that thousands of those who I have shared thoughts with will suffer and die while I am willowing in my happiness? Perhaps I choose to prolong self-suffering and despair within the Varden's own ranks. Yet you can look around you, and see men dancing jubilantly and clapping tankards together as merrily as ever they have before in their lives. To they, with Eragon to lead their charge, they are already as good as free, and that notion has them more enthusiastic and content than any rational happiness could.

_Saphira eyed her gravely. One blink passed over the sapphire bulb. _You do not share in their cheer. _Arya felt the statement rhetorical, and made no motion to verify the obvious. The dragoness' next statement threw away her calm expectedness. _Because you do not expect Eragon to succeed.

_Arya's face whipped around towards the dragon and she spoke. Her feelings were so tumultuous that her words came out aloud. "That is not what I said! Above all except you, I have the strongest faith in Eragon."_

Do you have the same faith in his blade and magical prowess as you do his will to survive? _Saphira replied._

Why do you ask me such things? You speak as if you too believe he will fail.

Not as quite. _A growl emanated from within Saphira's belly, but it was a nonthreatening action and meant only to convey feeling. _On the contrary. Eragon and I fail or achieve victory as one entity, and as such, I have nothing but the fullest confidence that we will succeed in our struggle. Now, I am merely exploring why you choose to live in such obvious misery while you have reason to be joyous.

I do not choose displeasure, _Arya replied, more fiercely than she had meant to._

Yet you have all of the avenues to be happy. You turn your back on them. You reject them. You send them scurrying away when you could welcome them into your waiting arms and flourish with them around you. Why, Arya? Why do you choose this?

_Arya concentrated on the horizon, throwing all of her energy to avoiding the dragon's eyes. The only reason was so that Saphira would not see the wild emotion roiling behind her own vision. _You speak only of Eragon. You assume I would accept him, and that he would be able to give me what I seek in order to be content.

He aspires only to make you happy when he lets himself be honest with his feelings, _Saphira replied. _But not even he is the true source of your unhappiness, nor, unless you allowed him to, could he free you of the burden of misery you carry.

_Arya stiffened beneath the dragon's words. _And you have already classified these burdens. _It was neither phrased nor meant as a question._

_She felt Saphira's eyes on her as if they carried heat on their vision, scalding her side and making it nearly unbearable. _Until you first let go of the fury in your heart, Dröttningu—no matter which path you choose, or what happens after—you will never be content.

* * *

><p>The agony had begun to solidify itself in her mind, residing in giant shapes and shadows tormenting her from respective realms of her imagination. They came at will, poking and prodding where it hurt her the most and igniting an endless fire through every inch of her veins. Moving as fast as they were past her mind's eye she couldn't attribute a guess as to what they represented, but it wasn't pleasant, and she was beginning to regress into the helpless acceptance that she had adopted after months of torture in Gil'ead, mourning Faölin's death even as she prepared herself for her own.<p>

_Faölin…_

But no. This would end. The process did not last forever, and she would wake up branded with the mark of the dragon as clearly as Eragon's. She would not be joining her beloved mate in the afterlife after all. Her mate… he who had died in her protection and whom she had agonized far more than was worth over.

All of a sudden, the marks attacking her became vivid and evil, monsters of her worst nightmares attacking her, twisting into evil shapes bejeweled with horrible horns and claws, tearing at her skin to accent the fire already burning there. The forms became nearly corporeal, and she endured with horror as they morphed into familiar beings; elves she had played with as a child, her mother, Nasuada… Eragon…

What madness was this?

_Faölin… my Faölin…_

She focused on her mate, the only one who could ever chase away her nightmares and terrors, the only one besides Eragon whom she trusted completely, if not endlessly. With the power of her mind, she threw her memories of their short days together at the wall assailing her, fighting off the demons that came to destroy her. Despite her efforts, her defense was torn to bits, the power of the memories weak compared with the raw energy of the shadows. She sunk back into herself, her mind itself trembling, too exhausted to cry out as the agonies crippled her.

_Let it end, and I will let you go._

She wasn't sure where the thought came from, but once it became apparent that it was more than incomprehensive muttering, she wasn't entirely sure it had been formed by her own mind. As if… it had been bestowed upon her by another force besides just her consciousness. As if on instinct it had appeared.

Abruptly, another shadow entered the scene behind her eyes. Instead of attacking with the vigor of the others, however, it swept away those that moved to harm her, striking them back and throwing every last one into the oblivion from which they had come. Only when they were completely gone did it turn its attention to her, apparently, and even before she could defend herself as before it surged forward and enwrapped her protectively in itself, warding off any who came to inflict pain.

Sinking uncertainly but inevitably into its grip, she allowed her incoherent mind to sink with her sense, understanding only that the grasp in which she laid would not harm her. There was something familiar about the shadow, but it was only a shape, a form, without color or corporeal existence. There was no placing it, yet the sense of _safety_ she felt inside it stirred the feelings in the pit of her heart that she hadn't felt in so, so long—so long she had nearly forgotten they existed. It was so unknown to her that she feared the entire process.

What she did understand was that this new shadow was not there to cause her harm, and that she had met it before, whether on the wake of a dream or in a distant snatch of her mind. It didn't matter, anyway, for she knew that the pain was gone and she would be delivered once more to her body when it was right.

The shadow, whatever it was and wherever it had come from, was not going anywhere. It would protect her until she was ready to face a new reality.

* * *

><p>Very slowly, she became aware again. Her consciousness returned to her body over several moments, and she felt her chest rise and fall rapidly as she tried to gain back the breath that she had clearly expended. Very slowly, she felt herself stir, and cracked her eyes open before splitting them clearly to the night beyond.<p>

It was if no time had passed at all. The tent was as dark as the nightfall before, and she could still feel Eragon's mind, as well as Saphira's, near. With no small effort, she struggled to a sitting position and nearly jumped when something rubbed against her leg before the flash of green color reminded her of her place.

The hatchling, as she scrutinized it, rubbed across the length of her leg, finally climbing crudely atop her lap to do the same to her. It dropped its snout down again to nudge her hand, and she flinched with the remembrance of the pain, causing the creature to skirt off her lap in rejection. Immediately, she realized her mistake and reached after it. Abruptly, she remembered that she and the hatchling were not alone.

Saphira was completely still, staring at the hatchling with a clenched jaw and as wide of eyes as Arya believed a dragon could possess. She seemed to pay Arya no mind whatsoever as she continued to glare down at the green creature. Her mind was closed off to Arya, although she had no doubt that she and Eragon were practically screaming at each other in their excitement. Unless they had calmed beyond measure, unlike her own racing heart.

Then she glanced at Eragon. He was still crouched where he had been, grasping Brisingr's scabbard. To her surprise, their were lines of blood trickling down his wrist from where he had clasped onto the sheath, so tightly the blunter edges of the device had cut into his skin. She looked up to his face to say something about the wound, and was stopped short when she caught his eye. He looked older, weathered, but he was staring at her with such pure and sweet kindness that her heart skipped a beat and she nearly stuttered over words. At her glance, a tired, reserved grin slid onto his face, a welcome gesture.

Thankfully for her in her confused state, he spoke before she had the chance. "From what I gather, that's natural. It took me a while to realize touching Saphira wouldn't burn me again."

It took her a moment to comprehend what he was referring to, and she quickly looked back towards the hatchling, where it had shrunk back a step. Slowly, carefully, she reached out a hand in the dragon's direction, showing her harmlessness. The dragon was skeptical for a moment, but curiosity and instinct stole its movements and it quickly examined her hand before nudging into her skin. Moving into the contact, Arya stroked down its side and scales, encouraged when it made a content yapping sound. It jumped playfully at her and she continued to pet it as it crawled into her lap and continued to smell her body.

Startling her again, she found its presence invigorating and explosive. She could sense it in her mind, but she could also sense it _in_ her mind, as if it were not an outward force moving in but a consciousness that began from within her very self and spread outward. There was little through the connection but the scantiest emotional vagueness, but she could sense the power it would grow into, over time. It excited her.

Both her hands caressing the hatchling, she found herself grinning in return as she turned back to Eragon. "The egg… has hatched. Most unexpectedly."

Eragon nodded, his eyes now captivated by the hatchling. "I didn't think dragons hatched often for those who weren't children. And I haven't read very many instances where they chose a female rider, although the case wasn't unknown."

"The elves held humor that that was because females chose words above blades," Arya replied, as enraptured as he was by the hatchling on her lap. She alternated glancing between the three of them. Saphira continued to be silent, while Eragon continued to grip the gloody scabbard with equal venom. Her smile gradually disappeared and she nodded towards his hands. "You have hurt yourself, Eragon."

Eragon spared his hands no more than a fleeting glance before returning them to the hatchling. "I was worried for you. You were thrashing and kicking but I didn't know, under the circumstance with the dragon, if it was safe for me to touch you and try to help you. I didn't have anyone around who tried that when Saphira hatched, but I don't think I suffered nearly as bad as what you just did."

"How long was it?" Arya asked. She resisted with intensity the shiver that threatened to wash over her as the memories of the pain crashed into her.

"Not very long," Eragon replied. Before she could move to help, he pried his fingers from the scabbard, clearly not without strain, and healed them with simple words. He dropped onto a knee, moving to her side as they both continued to observe the green creature.

Arya couldn't help but smirk as the dragon rolled over, tearing into her clothes with its spikes but amusing her all the same. "He's beautiful. He hatched for me." She led the last part as if to herself, as if it was easier to disbelieve it than accept it for the truth it clearly was. Even as she spoke, her eyes traveled to her hand, barely trusting what she would see there. True to nature, her palm glowed silvery white with the mark of her dragon, binding her through it, channeling her through it. Connecting her to _her dragon_.

_He's magnificent,_ Saphira rumbled into both of their minds, collapsing the walls she had thrown towards all but Eragon. She finally moved, stretching her neck to move her head closer towards where the two of them sat in the grass. She sniffed the air once, as if picking up the creature's scent, and admired it along with them. _And vulnerable._

"Not while I yet breathe," Arya replied instantly.

"Nor we," Eragon reassured. He raised a hand and extended it, as if to rest on her arm, before snatching it back as quickly as he could. She spared him a glance, but he was looking towards the dragon, not her. Saphira, too, was as captivated as she.

_This has been a most interesting day, _Saphira said.

"Nasuada will be woken," Eragon said. "Blödhgram is on his way to her. The others are running here now. They will be here in minutes, if not sooner."

"How did you contact them so quickly?" Arya brushed at the dragon's head, and it nipped at her hand, throwing it off and batting it back and forth.

Eragon grimaced. "I threw myself at Blödhgram's dreams until I got his attention and he woke, while you were… under. He wasted no time in arousing the others once I explained the situation, and I decided that Nasuada should be informed of this immediately, just as she would like."

From behind them, Saphira dug her claws into the ground and quietly pulled her body forward across the ground, so that her neck stretched far enough to allow her head to pass easily through the gap between Eragon and Arya. She lowered her face down so she was nearly touching the little dragon's scales, and stared it directly in the eye. _Hello, hatchling._

It froze and initiated a staring contest with its larger counterpart. It was doubtful it understood her words, but her appearance was clearly as intriguing as if he had. Warily, it stumbled across Arya's lap until it could smell at her face, which Saphira allowed it to do. For a good few moments, it was oblivious to the rest of the world as it inspected her scent, but once it was satisfied it happily nipped at her, at which time she withdrew her head with a grunt that sent the hatchling sprawling. Instead of becoming afraid, as it had before, the little dragon merely jumped up with a little squeak of enthusiasm and leaped back up at her.

Saphira physically shook her head at it. _Ridiculous hatchling, _she said, but Arya detected a deep amount of affection and adoration on her voice. She lowered her head again and blew a cloud of smoke towards the hatchling. It yelped at tried to attack the cloud, quickly burrowing itself into Arya's arms and growling at it from safety.

Arya let out a chuckle at its actions as she stared down at it, still trying to comprehend what was happening. In her peripheral vision, Arya saw Eragon's eyes turn towards her face and his smile widen.

"It needs food immediately, I imagine," Eragon said. "Saphira ate so much in the first few weeks that I was afraid Garrow would discover it for all of the missing meat."

"He will soon wake all of the Varden if he does not calm down," Arya replied, watching as the hatchling detached itself from her grip and scurried onto the ground, chasing the smoke for a further moment before turning and huffing at her, looking as if it were watching for praise. "It will be all the hungrier for all of its action."

"Perhaps if I could steal out and grab something from the quartering—" Eragon halted mid-sentence and turned his head towards the outside of the tent. Turning with him, she caught the sound of a horse's hooves clapping over soft turf, as well as a greater number of heavier footsteps. Eragon turned back to her. "Nasuada and Blödhgram approach."

Arya nodded, and stared at her palm again. After nearly a hundred years of possessing the same body, albeit with the blemishes of war and the existing scars of her imprisonment, she was unused to seeing such a rapid change. The glow that rested on the heel of her hand was nearly unbelievable, and she still had to glance several times between her hand and the dragon to reassure herself that neither of them were going to disappear.

The clops of the horse's approach rapidly slowed, as did the pounding of the footsteps of what she assumed were several Urgal guards. She detected the minds of all twelve elves alongside the other consciousnesses as well, and felt Nasuada's atop the steed. As she observed with her mind, still staring at her dragon, the horse slowed to a trot and finally pulled up, from the noises, directly beside Eragon's tent.

"Are you ready?" Eragon asked her. She nodded at him with a grin, and he returned the gesture. A moment later, there was a murmuring of soft voices outside, and after a brief spout of bustling there came a short rapture at the tent pole and the flap was moved outside to admit several people.

Nasuada came first, clad in a dark cloak that probably covered her nightwear. She was sweating and appeared flustered, and her eyes widened as she beheld the scene before her. She stopped short only a few steps after entering the tent, and only elven instinct prevented Blödhgram from running into her. He and the eleven elves all filed into the tent, and each and every one of them gasped as they beheld the green hatchling. Before long, the thirteen of them, along with Arya, Eragon, and Saphira, were packed into Eragon's tent. The Urgals, from beyond the tent mouth, grunted in their fashion as they moved to take up protective positions.

The hatchling froze when it saw them all, and leaped to Arya's side as it beheld so many people. It showed no fear, however—merely curiosity as they all observed it and it them. She was impressed, but kept her words to herself as she laid a hand against the dragon's side. The elves glanced as much at her as they did at the hatchling, but it was clear which of them they were having trouble contemplating.

At length, Blödhgram raised two fingers to his lips. "Argetlam…" he murmured, bowing his head in Arya's direction. One by one, the elves followed the gesture, leaving her without words and staring again at the mark on her palm. The elves, her brethren, those whom she had shared confidence for decades, looked unto her with a new sense of praise and amnesty, as if the mark had completely changed her.

Then again, perhaps it had.

Nasuada clearly blinked several times before she was able to find the words she meant to speak. "Arya… I… I can't even form together something to say right now. Of all the things that could happen, after all the Varden's just been through to get _to_ the winter… and now this occurs. I never expected such. How did it happen?"

Eragon held up a hand, and Arya would have if he had not. Turning towards the elves and standing simultaneously, the blue rider said, "Blödhgram, please set up a perimeter. No one gets in, not human, elf, or dwarf. Or Urgal."

"As you command, Eragon-elda," Blödhgram replied. Arya knew that all twelve of the spellcasters were quite aware they were being dismissed, but they all went without complaint, sparing both she and the hatchling a last glance before moving quickly from the tent to assume their duties.

Eragon waited until the tent flap had been clasped behind them, and proceeded immediately to erect more wards than were already in place around in his tent. The process took a few moments, and Arya continued observing the hatchling with awe. The moment Eragon was finished, he gestured to Nasuada and the questions began.

"How did this happen, Arya?"

"It merely hatched. I was sleeping and the cracking of the egg awoke me."

"Is it that simple?" Nasuada said. "Obviously, I have never witnessed a hatching before. Does the dragon hatch whenever it feels ready in the presence of its rider?"

"More or less," Eragon answered for her.

"I cannot explain why it hatched here, now, Lady Nasuada, nor do I understand," Arya said. "Dragon eggs, those bound for riders, rarely ever hatched for anyone over two decades of age. I do not know why it has chosen me."

"I do," Eragon replied. He had crossed out of the way so that Nasuada and Arya could speak unhindered, and was now crouched. As both the elf and Varden leader turned towards him and he himself stared at the emerald creature at her feet, he continued, "It hatched for you because you are its rider. And destined as such until the ends of time."

Arya glanced down at the hatchling, which was alternating between exploring the ground around it, grunting and nudging her hand, and staring intently at Nasuada. The Lady continued to appear perplexed, even more so as she spoke hesitantly, "…are these shells part of the egg?"

Glancing around, her heart dropped out. The insinuations were clear. "Yes."

"It hatched here? You were here?" Nasuada said. "You were in Eragon's tent? I didn't know you two talked so late into the night. What troubled you both so much that the conversation carried that far?" Arya dared no glance at Eragon, but from what she saw from the corner of her eye, if she was as pale as she thought she was, then he was whiter than the sun. Nasuada's right eyebrow raised as she said, "I thought you said you were sleeping when it hatched. But you were talking instead?"

"No," Eragon said. She hoped she was doing as good of a job concealing her horror as he appeared to be. "She was sleeping."

There was a moment of terribly awkward silence, in which Nasuada glanced between them at least half a dozen times. Finally, to Arya's momentous relief, the Lady blinked once and made a clear show of forgetting the previous conversation. "This is a very fortunate change of events, I think. No longer must you leave us, Arya. And we have a new Rider to our cause. Yes, this is a joyous occasion."

"Not yet it's not," Eragon said. By the way he was glancing towards Saphira and the similar tone of his voice, it was clear that he was broadcasting her thoughts. "If Galbatorix learns of this occurring, he will use every resource he has available to make sure this hatchling never reaches maturity."

On instinct, Arya snatched the dragon off the ground and cradled it as it mewed in half-protest and half-delight. "Without Murtagh, I do not think he has many more servants that would be capable of such an act against so many of the Varden."

"But he can't afford to not try," Eragon said. He looked towards Nasuada, who appeared to be contemplating something. "Not only _its_ safety, but the safety of everything we hold is at stake now. As cruel as it is to deny the morale and joy this brings, it must remain a secret."

Nasuada sighed, glaring at them both before glancing at the ground and then unto the green dragon. She bit her lip, and Arya could sense how arduously the deliberations were turning over themselves in her mind. The leader of the Varden finally crossed her arms and sighed again, staring towards the dragon. "No. This is too powerful. We must spread this word. It will sew fear across the Empire through those that still oppose us; it will weaken Galbatorix' influence over his servants and his men. It will draw hundreds more, thousands, hopefully, to our cause, and we will bolster a force to march with come spring. No, I cannot in this position keep secret that which could be our greatest tool."

Saphira growled, and her emotions were laid clear as Eragon spoke for both of them. "My Lady, please reconsider. The danger you would place the Varden in… the dragon's life… all of the things you could lose by this action far outweigh the gains."

"Dragons grow so fast we would only be able to conceal it a few weeks, yes?" Nasuada said.

"A few weeks is all it would be for it to grow large enough to have a chance at defending itself," Eragon replied. "Once it's old enough to begin training, we will no longer need to protect it at all, and we can announce then that we have another fully fledged dragon and rider on our side."

"In good conscience, my course is what I believe will benefit the Varden the greatest."

"Lady Nasuada," Arya said, breaking into the argument between liegelord and vassal. "You cannot risk this life and advantage to boost the souls of precious few men. There are thousands in this city that will protect it with their life, but how many assassins will Galbatorix throw at them before this hatchling is grown enough to fight for itself? And if Galbatorix rides out himself…" She glanced at Eragon, weighing her next words carefully. The look of curiosity in his eyes spurred her on. "…I fear none of us will stand against him."

Nasuada was silent for several moments, considering Arya's words. Finally, she made her reply. "We have had too much misery and death to accompany our victories. Too much has gone amiss. And now we have gleaned an advantage and it has gone _right_… No, we will not hide our pride and confidence, while holding our caution. We have captured three Empire strongholds in the past month, the red rider is dead, the green egg has been recovered and now it has hatched; we will not proceed in misery any longer. In the morning, we will gather the Varden and inform them that we have a new rider in our midst, and that it is Arya Shadeslayer of the elves. There will be a feast tomorrow evening. We will not hide as if we have committed grave crimes; we will celebrate this occasion as the victory that it is."

Her words left marks on Arya's mind, and she absorbed with silent and furious understanding the risk that Nasuada was placing on her dragon for _morale_. The link she already shared with the hatchling, staring up at her face from her lap, was astounding. Nothing would touch it—she would never allow it. Any enemy would be slain before they had their opportunity to do _her_ hatchling harm.

Eragon stirred with her, and it was clear he was just as indignant. "Do this, my Lady, but understand that both Arya and I oppose you in your decision, and that we will not forget the danger you have placed this dragon in, nor will it gain you favor with the riders when you ask something of us that we are not obligated to deliver."

Saphira accompanied his angry words with a low hum, not aggressive but subtly threatening. Nasuada bristled, and her own emotion became briefly displayed on her face before disappearing behind her eternal mask of leadership. "Forget not, Eragon, that you are my vassal. You do yet what I command as I command it."

For several moments, Eragon remained frozen, his eyes locked with the Varden leader's. Arya wasn't sure she had ever seen the two of them so clearly in raw disagreement. Were it to go any farther, she was afraid they'd be at each other's throats, which would end quicker than it began. At the greatest length, Eragon heaved a breath, and began his reply.

"Vassal I may be, but Rider above all else. Should this dragon's life become endangered, I will anything and everything to protect it, be that for the Varden or against. Should it come down to _you_ and your army, my Lady, or _it_, I will choose it no matter the circumstance or consequence. If you understand both that and my opposition, then I have no more to say."

By the time he was finished speaking, Arya was nearly sure Nasuada would suffer a bursting blood vessel for the anger etched into her skin. Seconds passed in which Arya was sure Nasuada would begin screaming at the blue rider, and she and he both clearly awaited the end with great expectance. In the end, Nasuada released her breath in a fierce hiss, and swallowed. "Very good, then. Your concerns are both noted. Please report to my tent at sunrise so we may make our success known to the Varden. Get some sleep before then."

She turned and nearly rushed from the tent. The flap was left swinging behind her.

Neither Arya nor Eragon moved as they listened to the Nighthawks commissioning for their orders. Nasuada's voice held weight on the night briefly, and then the sounds of a mounted horse began to move off at a much more comfortable pace than they had arrived in. The heavy footfalls of the Urgals moved off with them, and after a long few minutes the sounds had diminished to the silence of night.

Finally, Eragon released a breath and glanced at Arya. "Well, that went well."

"Her risk is far too great," Arya said. The hatchling had begun to growl, and she imagined it was hungry. "Though I doubt Galbatorix could truly succeed by an assassin's hand. Not with the elves to protect the hatchling, as well as my own blade."

"And mine," Eragon said. He glanced at Saphira as if speaking, and then crossed quickly to the saddlebags next to the bed. He rummaged for a moment before removing two dead rabbits. He pulled a knife from his bag and began skinning them, clearly hiding his disgust at his own actions. He glared off at Saphira. "Apparently she had saved these for later as a morsel." He quickly peeled away the outer layers and laid them against the ground. The moment he released them the dragon in Arya's lap leapt down and began tearing away at the chunks. Despite herself, Arya smiled as it glanced up at her with a mouthful of meat.

As Eragon replaced his knife and sat down beside her, she glanced at him. He appeared as troubled as she, as they both watched her dragon enjoy his first meal. After a time spent in silence, she said, "Eragon… what now? How will you proceed from here?"

In answer, he shrugged. It wasn't the most welcome gesture. "When he grows large enough," he nodded towards the hatchling, "you'll learn to ride him. You have the advantage of having ridden a dragon before, so most of the learning will be his in carrying you." He paused. "Saphira and I will instruct you in everything Oromis and Glaedr taught us, but there was much we never learned before… before it was too late."

He looked away, and she could tell his emotions were getting the better of him. The hatchling, finally finished with its food, crawled over to her and curled up in a ball into her lap. She laid a hand on its belly, feeling its breath rise and fall with glorious life, and couldn't help but smile. _I have a dragon_, she said to herself, trying to comprehend her own words. _I am a Dragon Rider._

Abruptly, she felt a surge through her link with the small creature, and contentment passed between them. She sighed audibly as she relished the feeling that was this completeness, a totally unique feeling that she had never known before. "This changes the complexity of the entire situation."

Eragon nodded, and before he could prevent it he yawned, as well. "Riders always do. We'll have to examine the situation in the morning. For now, he wants to sleep, and we both need it after the commotion we've just gone through." Arya watched him stand, and glance back at the bed. She watched him flinch, assumedly as he remembered Nasuada's probable conjecture on their sleeping arrangements. With a brief spell, he cleaned the bed sheets of the egg residue that clung to it, and after releasing the magic he gestured to it. "Go ahead. It's going to be a long morning."

He crossed over to where Saphira rested and made to curl up into her side. Arya let him go, staring at the dozing hatchling in her arms and wondering how he himself had felt on the first night Saphira had hatched. When the sounds of he and his dragon had settled down to silence, she carefully climbed to her feet, her emerald partner-of-mind in her arms, and paced to the bed as he had bade.

She set the dragon down, where it woke long enough to yawn and growl in protest before slipping back away. Lying beside it, she lay on her elbow for minutes just watching it, letting the joy of seeing it sleep wash over her in the pure pleasure form that it was. At last, however, her own exhaustion demanded rest.

Curling her arms around the hatchling, which snuggled into her grip, she surrendered to her exhaustion, for the first time in weeks, without fear. As sleep consumed her, the glow and her palm and the happiness in her heart warmed her dreams.


	22. 21: The Beginning of the End

**This beginning of this chapter's not up to my par. Oh, well. More or less a filler, but there remains some significance here.**

**Note: this name is not to mean that the story is about to end. On the contrary, it signifies, on a wild guess by myself, that we're nearing midway, if not only slightly past it.**

**Thanks to reviewers: Akiza1, The Meepsta, RestrainedFreedom, lazy-to-loginP, TheJasAlex, Marshall88, Deafening Silence, Elvendiath, BokitoProof (x2), DawnsRedemption, Halcyon5, The Pro, Sorrows Equinox, kmc995, Wolfyman123, BlackQueen92, Sable1212, Alrya90, Masteroftime, roj, Unique Fantasiser, warrior of worlds, 13love and Tsukune08. **

**Disclaimer: Who said, who said you're not—Wait, I'm not even gonna quote that song.**

**21**

**The Beginning of the End**

It was a bleak morning. Clouds had rolled in over the night, and a windless evening and dusk had evolved into a torrential morning, whipping apart tents and sending things as heavy as chickens flying off of their feet. Cold bit at the skins of men, and breaths were alternatively heavy and invisible on the air, creating a disconcerting feeling that swept through the crowd like dragonfire.

A stage had been assembled hastily in the early hours of light at the head of the only pavilion outside of the city that was large enough to accommodate the majority company of the Varden. As it was, there were still hundreds that had to watch the stage from side alleys branching off from the pavilion, but the raised platform was arranged so that nearly everyone in attendance would have a clear view of what was occurring there.

Eragon stood with his arms crossed on the far end of it, so that he could be near to Saphira, who was situated next to the stage. From his vantage point, he could virtually observe all those assembled, from the farthest reaches of the men on foot to the end of the platform of delegates to himself. He was tentatively touching Arya's mind in the tent behind the scene, waiting for the time of her approach. Other than the briefest of reassuring contacts, though, she was as closed off to him as she had ever been.

They had both woken before sunrise. While Eragon went to Nasuada's tent to begin their preparations for the morning's announcement, Arya had contacted her mother and explained the situation. The contents of the meeting were, as of yet, a complete mystery, but Arya had joined him at the tent looked slightly perturbed with the hatchling in her arms, informing him only that the elves were mightily surprised by the revelation. The plan had been made out to be simple and short. Nasuada would make a short speech to the Varden, and then present Arya and the green dragon. She implored Arya to speak herself, but the elf declined with intent. Unlike the night before, it seemed that Nasuada understood the extent of their determination, and relented in the end.

She sat now in the center of the stage, head bent with a number of her advisors. Eragon scrutinized her with a furious glare, discontent was he was with the situation. He half-expected a black dragon to drop from the sky at any moment and unleash an inferno upon the assembled Varden. As the Varden's people began to complete their entrance into the pavilion, Eragon's unease rose.

_I still disagree with this,_ Eragon told Saphira.

_It is Nasuada's will. Arya could refuse and escape, but she has not. I doubt the Varden and elves' alliance would survive such a calamitous occurrence. Perhaps that is the reason why she has chosen to go through with this._

A surge of protectiveness blasted its way through Eragon's nerves. A memory of the green hatchling rushing around Arya's resting body playfully only increased the painful urge. _We will be on our constant guard until the moment when it can fend for itself in the wild, and can bear Arya's weight in flight._

Saphira grunted, startling many of the bystanders closest to her. _That is inevitable. It would come to pass even if our will had occurred._

As individual entities, they surveyed the Varden as the body finished congregating, for the majority, and began to pack in, closer so that they would be able to clearly hear Nasuada's words. Even as he turned to resume his watch on the ebony-skinned woman, she climbed to her feet and raised her arms. As the Varden became silent instantly, he finished his thoughts. _One way or another, this is _not _a good idea._

"My friends!" Nasuada called, and around the crowd people cheered lightly. "My brothers! It is a great day in our never-ending struggle to free the lands of Alagaësia from the clutches of the wicked! Not only those things which are momentous have grinned happily on our fate today, but also the virtues of secrecy and the will of the gods!

"Every one of you is aware that Murtagh, Red Rider of Galbatorix, is dead. His dragon went with him; he will trouble the Varden no longer. It should be well known, however, that in his final hours, he defied the will of Galbatorix in a sacrifice none of us can even dream of enduring for its horrifying extent, and he turned the tides of our entire endeavor by being the bravest and most honorable of men. This must be known to all of you, to not look upon him as an enemy in the end—nor necessarily as a friend—but as an honorable man, worthy of your respect.

"But this is not a moment to be struck solemn by grievous thoughts, for fortune has smiled upon us in Murtagh's sacrifice! In defying his master, the Red Rider's final act was to deliver upon us that which we have sought for a century; the last dragon egg!"

An uproar of surprise and whispering ignited instantly through the crowd. On the stage, as well, the leaders of the people elicited shock and swung towards Nasuada with disbelieving faces. Only Jörmunder, whom Eragon had suggested be told before the ceremony, and Eragon himself remained perfectly still throughout the calamity. Abruptly, the shock sifting throughout the gathering transformed into pride, and short exclamations of strength provoked a smile from Nasuada before she held up her hands once more. The silence she commanded was obeyed instantly, while the ghosts of the Varden's surprise and elation remained.

"Before you begin to speculate, my friends, it is time that I speak you the truth of the matter while it cannot be a rumor… in but the two days since we acquired it—" Eragon and Saphira both elicited irritation at her insinuation of acquisition. "—compared to the years it took for Saphira to hatch for Eragon, the dragon inside of it has chosen its new rider. Just hours ago, in the high hours of the night, it hatched for the one that is now destined to join Eragon at the head of our charge on Galbatorix!"

She inclined her head a half hand to the left and back in the blink of an eye, the signal for Eragon to pass on. He sent a wave of verification through his link with Arya, per the plan, and the elf severed their link, throwing him out so quickly it almost shocked him.

Across the stage, Nasuada threw an arm towards the back step to the platform. "Behold, the second Free Rider!"

Arya stepped unto the stage, embroidered in her pitch-black battle gear and grim expression, the green hatchling perched upon her shoulder. Eragon could sense just from her appearance how displeased she was, but to the onlookers she would have appeared no more indignant than any other elf they might happen upon.

There was an immediate gasp, and a few screams, that the crowd exhaled as one. Through his endless probe throughout the minds of the audience, Eragon felt many similiarly-exploring spellcasters recoil at the unbelievably powerful emotion that exploded from the consciousnesses of the onlookers as they beheld hatchling and elf coinciding with each other. There was a rustling, and then a half-moment of silence where Eragon suddenly realized that there were immediate mixed feelings. An elf rider sent unease through them, no doubt, but did they see the other side as well? His fears were equalized in Saphira, but nullified a moment later. Abruptly, the crowd broke down in one section in a roar of approval, and seconds later all of those assembled were cheering.

Nasuada's smile gradually grew in direct relation to the volume of the crowd, and around her the still-perplexed leaders, Belatona's governor foremost in his confusion and apparent fear, grinned uneasily with her. Whether the action was for show or not, they cheered with the crowd in a dignified manner until their leader held up her hands for the third time. "Arya Shadeslayer of the elves! When this week dawned, Galbatorix and his enslaved rider numbered two against our one. When the next week dawns, he will find that _he_ is the one, and the Varden's number has risen to two!"

The crowd roared, and Eragon allowed himself to grin. The numerous faces and minds he felt concentrated on his reaction necessitated the action more than his own pleasure at the fact, but he was more than pleased with the way the Varden was receiving the news they were now in the middle of.

As the people calmed on their own levels, Nasuada, instead of calling for their quiet, instead raised her voice, so that even above their din the words she spoke cut sharply through the air. "Tomorrow, we must ready for the winter, for the struggles we have yet to face, begin our preparations for our final march on Urû'baen… but _tonight! _Tonight, a rider of the enemy is dead, we hold fortress in a city that only six months ago was untouchable behind the Empire's black gate, and our greatest ally shall join our greatest warrior as those who lead our charge! Tomorrow, we begin final journey to freedom, but _tonight the enemy will hear us as we roar, and they __**will know that we are coming**_!"

From the shortest leader on the stage to the farthest child in the pavilion, every being was on their feet, and all those except Arya raised their arms in victory. As Eragon watched the elf stoically observe the Varden's celebration, as Nasuada raised her arms and offered them to the hands of her people, he raised his right arm for his show of support and simultaneously turned away from the ground. He paced the back of the stage as he watched the leaders, most of them either wearing wide grins or trying to get to Nasuada. As the Varden's lady turned away beaming from the crowd, Jörmunder stepped forward and both held his hands high in victory while preventing the leaders from reaching her. His action allowed her to enter her horde of Nighthawks waiting precariously at the back of the stage and approach Eragon as the blue rider arrived at Arya's side. Saphira, for show and politics, loosed a fireball into the sky before gripping the ground and pushing off, unfurling her wings high to glide after it.

Watching the dragon as she flew away, Nasuada's smile only diminished slight, and she spoke to them as if their incident the previous night had never occurred. "There will be wild celebrations today, and I hold no misconceptions that this will now remain a secret. However, our men will do well with this; you saw them, Eragon, you felt their minds… they have acknowledged the glory and hope this brings."

"As you say, my Lady," Eragon said stiffly. Unlike she, his grin had disappeared long ago, and the altercation was still fresh in his mind. His arms were now clasped behind his back, and for fear of Saphira's reaction to Nasuada's words he was glad that she was in sky.

Nasuada observed him carefully but nodded. "I will arrange for a feast at my tent at dusk tonight. All of my captains and representatives will be invited to attend, and I require you, Eragon, to be there. Arya, I implore you to attend, as well, although I have not the power to request it of you as I have Eragon."

Arya's lips turned into a thin white line as she stared towards the darker woman. Eragon could almost feel the thoughts rushing incoherently through her mind, even through the wall she had erected impenetrably against all mental advances. Many moments passed, and just when Nasuada apparently turned to continue on her way with taken offense, the elf responded. "I will do as you say, Lady Nasuada, but it will be the last act I do for you or the Varden of good will alone. I will go where I will and do as I please, and nay shall you hold any responsibility nor authority over me except that which is due to the allies of the Riders. You have offended my dragon and I in the most horrible way, and I have sworn an oath of fealty to no one. From now and forward, I choose my own path, and hold allegiance to none but the Lead Rider."

Eragon, taken aback by the title and her defiance equally, watched as Nasuada's jaw clenched. He reached out towards the Varden's leader's mind and once his familiarity was recognized he swiftly spoke his message. _As your vassal, I advise you to accept her. She holds no obligations anyway, and at least by this you can extend some manner of courtesy and gratitude to her without directly addressing past offenses._

Nasuada's carefully guarded emotions bespoke nothing of her reaction, but the pit of thought that was available to him in their weak link revealed her distaste of his advice. To his surprise and relief, however, she said, "I thank you, then, Friend Elf and Rider, and look forward to your company this evening."

The two women nodded to each other. Eragon contemplated drawing Brisingr and severing the rope of tension that separated them. Finally there was a mutual bow between them and the Nighthawks tightened their ranks. "Eragon," Nasuada said, "I expect you by my side at its commencement."

"Yes, my Lady," he replied, and her entourage immediately proceeded with her down the stage and around the mass of people, where she would have an insufferable number of supporters, as he reckoned.

With this in mind, he turned to Arya, and found her back turned to him. With a quick movement, she leaped off the platform and landed flat on her feet. He took a step after her when her head turned towards his and he saw warning in her eyes. "The crowd does not suit me," Arya said simply.

He stared deeper into her eyes and beheld deeper emotion than simple daring. the happiness of the people became louder behind him, as the leaders began to descend to shake the hands and clap their soldiers on the pack, and in return the Varden climbed onto the platform to come greet them. Before it was too late, he turned back to the elf and nodded onward. "Of course. I trust we will speak later."

She did not respond. Three steps towards the surrounding tents that enveloped the pavilion fore and behind the stage and the sight of her figure vanished in the soft morning shadows. Eragon turned and faced the oncoming crowd only long enough to glimpse their size, and quickly leaped off the stage and took a different route into the tents before they could realize he was still there.

He did not blame Arya for her desire to leave the crowd behind. He could only imagine—literally, for the extent of her emotions was hidden behind the suddenly common walls of her mind—the confusion her newest link was putting her through. Especially with Nasuada's offense and unjust insinuations, he could quite clearly understand why she would want to escape from all of the mayhem that the Varden was inevitably creating with their preemptive celebrations, if only for the reason to get the hatchling away from so many leering eyes.

It disconcerted him considerably that she pushed _him _away, after the nights that she had spent beside him for no other reason than comfort, even when he was the only person left alive who could properly counsel her, in any shape or form, in what she was experiencing.

As he flitted between the trees, Saphira swatted his thoughts aside with indifference. _It is not you she seeks to get away from, little one. You must remember how it felt; she simply needs a moment to stop and think about what has happened._

_She shouldn't have gone off alone, _Eragon said. He glanced up at the sky to find his partner-of-mind hanging low, below the cloud cover.

Saphira poked him sharply in his mind. _You let her go. And you should know by now that she can take care of herself. You, on the other hand, I would never let off anywhere as easily as that. You are far easier to convince of safety than I._

_I'm the one who's concerned about hers, _Eragon pointed out.

_Relax, _she ordered him, and, grudgingly, he acted to obey. _She is not foolish as to go beyond the range of where we may assist should there become an urgent need. If any suspicious activity arises at all, I'm sure she will be crying out in our minds for reinforcement before the danger has even appeared before her._

_Even so. I do not like to see her alone. _He paused, and then added, _If it pleases you for me to admit it, I would rather she be accompanied by somewhat who was not me and be safe than not be accompanied at all._

Saphira snorted half-humorously and half-doubtfully. _That means little. Besides, I doubt that she would have allowed anyone to accompany her but you in any case whatsoever._

The comment was meant good-naturedly, and while it didn't soothe his silent anxiousness it made him feel a slight bit warmer in the pit of his hair. Skirting again through the gaps between tents and hiding out from any stragglers he saw, he scratched at his chin and considered a clearing for a moment before speaking. _Come get me. We haven't _really _flown together in a while._

_Too long, _Saphira agreed.

Eragon watched her swing from the sky gracefully and set down without the usual cloud of dust and stone. Alighting carefully with softer strokes of her wings, she attracted virtually no surrounding attention as she touched to the earth. Before those around could react to the abrupt appearance, Eragon rushed out from his hiding place and leaped atop the saddle already positioned on her back. Saphira took to the sky once more and they soared high and out of earshot, leaving the Varden and any troubles that they could escape behind.

Twisting and turning through the sky on his dragon's back, Eragon threw his arms free on the wind. Closing his eyes against the wind, he felt motionless and without balance for several moments and relished where once he had felt queasy and staggering. Saphira cruised to a comfortable altitude for him and moved no higher, happy to remain at a careful glide as they branched over the forests that bordered the north. In the distance, Lake Leona shone dully in the sunless morning, and a remote fog obscured the horizon. Except for the harsh torrents of the air, all was quiet.

And the silence was a comfort.

_Another egg has hatched, _Eragon whispered. He had spent many dark hours of the morning, in dreams or awake, fully comprehending the fact. His head still rolled over it and struggled to believe that it was true. He was no longer the only free Rider! _Arya_ was with him! _Arya is a rider, Saphira. Nothing will be able to stand in our way now._

_Galbatorix has many secrets that yet empower him without our knowledge, _Saphira replied, veering back and forth in a lazy pattern. _But yes… I am as joyous today as I have ever been. No longer am I alone but for my masters and my enemies. Again the dragons can fly in the sky as kinsmen. How I await the day when the hatchling can soar with me… I am curious as to whether his flying abilities will compare with my own._

_I'm sure you'll outmatch him, _Eragon reassured her, a teasing tinge clear on his voice. He scratched at her scales, staring out at the landscape around them. The visual image of two magnificent creatures of blue and green ruling the skies was everywhere he looked, and he did nothing to hinder it. _I still find it curious it chose one so old, however. Rarely in our teachings did we observe something so extraordinary._

_Not as much so. You forget, the egg was laid shortly after, if not before, Arya's birth, just as I was born long before yours. Had the green egg been discovered and smuggled away inside of mine Arya would have received her fate long, long ago. The only reason riders were usually discovered young is because the magic that dictates the connection between rider and dragon was limited to a smaller collection of elves and humans. The magic that evolved from such spells in the cases of myself and the hatchling expanded to choose who was fated to ride us from the all of Alagaësia._

Eragon experienced a rush of pride as he heard himself spoken of as her choice from among millions of individuals. _I suppose, if you look at it that way. _They lapsed briefly into a very comfortable silence. Eragon tapped at her spikes and rubbed his feet against her sides, finally grinning as additional thoughts occurred to him. _You're no longer alone, Saphira. You've found the mate you've been afraid you wouldn't seek._

Far from the enthusiastic response he had anticipated, the dragoness merely grunted and dove sharply a few hundred feet before executing a selection of extreme banks and twists, finally leveling out to allow Eragon to catch his breath on the wind. _Perhaps. Much has yet to be seen for what comes after today._

_Saphira, _Eragon scoffed, _you've been living in misery believing yourself to be totally alone. Now you have your partner!_

From her flight, she turned her head so that she could see him, scrutinizing him visually. _Much has yet to be seen, Eragon. I shall not give to myself hope that has already been destroyed once in order to allow it to happen again should some horrible tragedy befall us. No, forevermore shall my feelings remain precarious before gregarious._

Killing every retort before it had a chance to escape his private consciousness, Eragon sighed instead, accepting her words as they were. _I understand._

_No. You do not._

_Allow me to clarify. I know not your loneliness, Saphira, but I understand your caution, concern, and fear. Remember that while we are two different souls and two different creatures, I share your pains as much as you share mine. And while you are alone in the world of fellowship, as am I, you will never be alone from me._

Saphira opened her chops and snapped them once, pleasant emotion overwhelming the gaps between them. She bounced in flight, nearly throwing him from the saddle but making him laugh all the same. _I love you, little one._

_I love you, too._

They flew on, and the conversation flowed between them effortlessly, most of it revolving around the green hatchling and what was on the horizon for both the Varden and them. Their fears and hopes and happiness and concerns were shared between the two of them without words, their mingling minds expressing all of their emotions silently and wholly. They spoke on, never fearing that they would run out of things for of to speak, and when they did they invented new things to speak of.

Gliding over the forests to the north of the city for the third time, Saphira dived gradually towards a small lake that branched of a river which flowed to the north, finally emptying into Leona. Eragon imagined her simply thirsty or in need of respite until he caught sight of a person resting on the rocks of the southern shore, exposed from the tree line. It didn't even take his elven eyes scrutiny to identify the figure.

Arya was clad in her pure white undergarments, a sleeveless shirt and leggings that stretched past her knees. Her leather and other clothing items were heaped in a pile behind her, and by the shape of her still-wet hair it was clear she had recently finished bathing; the lake still steamed from where she had contained and warmed it. Her hands were clasped in her lap and she sat atop a rock, legs dangling over the edge to rest over the water level a few feet below. On a rock beside her, the green hatchling was nipping at something on the rock and jumping at things in the air, and as Saphira dove low enough to skirt the surface of the water Eragon could make out a smile on the elf's lips as she watched the young dragon.

On the other side of the spectrum, he was recoiling. _Saphira!_

_What? _the dragoness replied calmly. _Is something the matter?_

_What are you doing? _Eragon replied, hastily diverting his eyes to the opposite shore before Arya could realize that he had spying on her in her underwear, as he already suspected she had. _She's indecent!_

Grunts and snorts simultaneously escaped Saphira's throat, and her laughter rocked through her body so much that Eragon tipped horribly close to falling into the lake for several seconds, scrambling to keep his hold on her body. Yelping, he leaned towards her back to retain his balance, and her amusement only continued.

_That's not funny!_ he protested. _Come on, stop playing around. You've already embarrassed me and now she won't talk with me for days! Get me out of here already._

_Relax, little one, _Saphira said, turning and banking across the lake surface, her left wing dipping into the water as she spun back towards where Arya rested on the shore. _She is obviously indifferent to your sights. She has not moved, nor has she attempted to conceal herself._

_Maybe she doesn't realize we're here. _It was a feeble excuse for his horrors, but Eragon was deathly afraid and wanted nothing more than to utter a spell and disappear.

_She's been watching us for minutes._

Eragon froze, trying to remember if they'd been in sight of the lake before. _How do you know?_

_Because I am me. Now stop fretting and hold on. _Before he could protest further, she arced downward and plunged into the lake. He barely had time to grab a breath before it would be smashed from his lungs by the lake, and forgot his concern in the pure effort it took to hold onto her as she winged her way through the water almost as skillfully as she did through air. For several seconds they cruised underneath the surface, sending schools of fish careening as they rushed through, before Eragon could last no longer and Saphira broke into air again to appease his desperate breaths.

Like the old dogs of Carvahall after vicious rainstorms, Eragon let loose his head, shaking the water from the unruly hair and happily watching it cascade into a mass as it settled again. _That was fun. _

_That was nothing, _Saphira said. Quickly, their flight angled towards the shore. Towards Arya and the hatchling. _Judging by the way your heart rate just increased, _this _will be much more entertaining._

_Sometimes I hate you._

The dragoness chortled at him again. _Yet you always love me._

_Not right now I don't—_

Their stop was so abrupt, Saphira throwing her wings open vertically and slamming them into a wall of air, that Eragon's breath was thrown from his lungs by the force alone. Allowing their flight to be stopped by the wall, Saphira calmly plopped to the ground and folded her wings, as Eragon struggled not to cough and sputter as he virtually fell off her back.

It wasn't until his feet shakily hit the ground that Arya looked up. Eragon expected anger, no matter what Saphira claimed, but was pleasantly surprised to find the smile that was directed at the hatchling still present on her face. "And now we are both clean."

Eragon wasn't sure if the statement was a joke or not. With all of his will, he focused on her eyes, feeling his cheeks grow red and doing his best to fight back his discomfiture. She was even more striking the closer he got; sitting as relaxed as she could possibly be, her damp hair sitting in curly strands framing her face and spilling across her shoulders, she couldn't possibly know the agony he was experiencing at the moment. As much as he wanted to run away, both from discomfort and embarrassment, his legs refused to allow him to do anything but stay.

_You seem uncomfortable, _Saphira commented, broadcasting to them all. Eragon shot her with fury through their link, which she happily deflected. Even the hatchling looked up at the connection, staring at Eragon and, to the rider's horror, appearing as humored as the small creature could possibly appear. Undeterred by Eragon's throes, Saphira trotted over and settled herself next to the elf and hatchling.

Arya laughed, and he enjoyed the sound so much that Eragon nearly forgot his uncomfortable nature. Her tone quieted, but the expression on her face remained undiminished. "I am not used to concealing myself as human women do. It is, as you have seen, a much less crucial matter among elves."

"Yes," Eragon agreed, moving forward with hopefully solid steps. Despite his words, he felt stiff and his gaze remained anywhere it could as long as it wasn't directed below shoulder level. A childhood of Garrow's attitude had made him awkward and inexperienced in such situations as these. "Have you been here the whole time?"

"Mostly," she replied, her eyes turned back to the hatchling. It had forgotten Eragon and had begun slapping its foreclaws at passing fish and insects in the water. "He was rather curious the farther I went away from the city, and when he saw the water his actions became wild until I brought him closer. He seems to be enjoying himself well enough."

Eragon grinned at the comment, sidling up so that he stood between the elf and Saphira. It was remarkable how bright the green creature appeared, despite the lack of sunlight. "Soon enough, your link, instead of his actions, will let you know he's feeling."

Arya paused, the smile slipping until it became only the ghost of a grin. "I have already felt a substantial amount from him." She stared at the hatchling as if she had forgotten that Eragon was there. Without visible prompt, it swiveled away from the water mid-swat and moved in her direction. He watched as she reached out a bare arm, and it nuzzled carefully into it. The smile returned. Eragon couldn't remember having Saphira react to him the same way at the same stage.

Eragon, as seconds passed by and the heat in his face diminished—_slowly—_lowered himself to a sitting position on the ground. He crossed his legs, and all three of them watched the hatchling go about its business. Saphira grunted multiple times. Touching Eragon on the arm, she said to them, _He is very curious and outgoing._

_Much like you were_, Eragon responded in her mind. He intentionally forgave and forgot her earlier betrayals, and reached up to scratch her snout.

_He will need to learn caution._

_He's less than a day old, Saphira,_ he replied. Even as they watched, the hatchling's body acted in a blur and there was an incredible splash from the edge of the water. As the droplets showered back down to the lake the little dragon withdrew to the rear of the rock, and Eragon beheld in amazement as it proceeded to tear a captured fish apart in its teeth. _And _you _couldn't do that at its age._

He found his face abruptly enveloped in a cloud of smoke, and reared back coughing. Saphira innocently licked her claws, and Arya laughed again. Mumbling curses under his breath, he sat up again and swatted at his dragon's leg before leaning against it. "He'll need a name, you know."

"Yes," Arya replied. "I have been considering it. He is not yet coherent enough to agree or disagree."

"Do you have any ideas yet?"

"Some. It does not seem to me that a name of old would be fitting to this—" She cut off abruptly, and Eragon's ears perked as he realized why. The sound of whispers in the brush behind them radiated through the silence like wildfire, and Eragon's whipping head caught the rustling of bushes.

Quickly, he sprang to his feet and seized Brisingr from his belt. Behind him, Arya dived at her pile of clothes, wrenching her own sword from the pile and leaping in front of the hatchling. Despite their quick actions, Saphira made no move whatsoever, and merely turned her head calmly towards the brush, giving no indication as to why she was unmoving.

Eragon was about to cry out to her when a cat leaped down from a tree at the edge of the forest and landed gracefully at the beginning of the shore, twenty yards away. Its black fur stood out heavily, and its crimson eyes seemed to explode outwards from its small skull. With a slight movement of the jaw, it exposed sharp fangs. Unlike its implied action, however, the expression of the motion was not aggressive.

_Greetings._

Irritation flowing into his mind, Eragon lowered Brisingr and relaxed. _Solembum. What are you doing here?_

"Why, he's with me, of course!"

Brisingr flashed upwards at the ready again, and a moment later was lowered once more, as Angela the herbalist walked out of the treeline, carrying her basket and glancing over them both, a sly smile across her face. She wore a plain brown robe and men's working boots, and from the mud that covered her clothes she made been moving for quite some time.

Arya cursed under her breath, barely audible to Eragon, and dropped her sword back atop her pile of clothes, again appearing nonetheless disturbed at being discovered by another party in her undergarments. "As much fun as you no doubt have doing that, a little advance warning would not be detrimental to us."

"Oh, but my life would be boring, then, dear!" Angela protested, bouncing forward and setting her basket down on the farthest rocks. Ahead of her, Solembum lounged, sitting on his haunches, his eyes, as always, on the green hatchling. The hatchling stared at him back. "And so would yours! Honestly, would you be happier if I had never unlocked those thoughts of yours for you? Truthfully? Whether or not you wanted me to?"

Eragon had absolutely no idea what the herbalist meant, but Arya clearly did. All hints of her earlier contentment vanished, and she turned away from them again, cursing once more under her breath. Meanwhile, the herbalist's smile widened to include teeth, and Solembum's own expression increased.

His attention captivated by the werecat's appearance, Eragon reached towards the mysterious creature's mind again, but found a void, as if nothing were even there, where he expected to find the familiar, yet unfamiliar, consciousness. Confused, he looked towards Angela instead. "I haven't seen Solembum in a while. What brings him out now?"

Angela shrugged. "How should I know? He just came out today and joined me on my walk. Now, it seems, I imagine it was to figure out what the to-do was up at the Varden. And you can see how he's taking his interests."

It was not a false statement. Solembum detached himself from his position and sidled slowly across the rocks. Arya clearly tensed as it approached the hatchling but did not move, nor did Saphira or Eragon. The hatchling itself, deterring from what Eragon had observed of it as of yet, made no motion of fear or to move away, instead holding its ground and appearing genuinely curious as the werecat neared. When the two completely unique beings were virtually side-by-side, they sniffed each other silently, under the watchful eyes of the four others, closed off as if in a completely different world. Solembum, after completing his inspection, moved back a step and gazed intently into the hatchling's eyes once more. The little green dragon appeared transfixed, and if Eragon hadn't known better he would have thought they exchanging conversation.

A moment passed and he blinked, and suddenly Solembum was gone. He snapped his head over just in time to catch sight of black fur disappearing into the tree cover, and the werecat was gone once more.

Angela grunted. "And I guess that is that, then. And here I was hoping he just missed me." She smiled at Eragon, who was too confused to even think about returning it. "Oh, well, then."

"What did he do?" Arya demanded as she eyed the trees where Solembum had vanished, not blatantly angry but intense all the same.

The herbalist shrugged, continuing in her gathering of odds and ends, grinning only at the elf as she went. "Nothing horrible, I'm sure, or else the poor little dear would be screaming and writhing." She nodded at the hatchling, which had seemingly forgotten about Solembum as quickly as the werecat's disappearance. "If I had to guess, which I tend not to try around that beautiful, strange cat, I would say he was merely curious about the newest little dragon in the kingdom same as any other being would be. I assume he didn't speak to Eragon, which I know he loves to do, so I'd have to say this little green sweetheart means a lot to him in some way fo him to come out of his way like this for a few seconds of contact."

Eragon sheathed Brisingr and moved to sit down against Saphira's leg. Angela's presence irritated him, for his desire to be alone with the two dragons and Arya, but Solembum's appearance cast an aura of mystery around the whole situation. Saphira was intent on watching the hatchling again, and her thoughts were her own, but she spoke to Eragon independently. _Remember the ways of werecats; it is best, I believe, for us to simply forget this confusion._

Eragon grunted to her, and glanced towards Angela, who was now approaching them. Arya had assumed a calmer stance and lowered her weapon. About ten paces from Saphira and Eragon, half the distance of separation where she'd previously been, Angela stopped and sighed, her eyes exploring the hatchling. "I have long hoped I would observe a dragon this young. I didn't get the opportunity with Saphira. But how beautiful this moment has truly turned out to be."

"So you have been looking for us, then?" Eragon said. "How did you find us?"

"Well, I wasn't _looking_ for you," Angela grinned. "More of, I was out and about this morning and the possibility of running into you interested me, and Solembum sort of led me—although I suppose I led myself on some sort of magical instinct—and here you were!"

"You did not set out to pursue us, then," Arya repeated. Eragon detected suspicion inside of the elf, but he doubted Angela knew her well enough to do so, as well. Arya had lowered herself to sit once more atop the rock, although she kept her blade resting flat against the hard surface as well. The chill of the air continued to have no seeming effect on her bare arms. "It was mere chance that you happened upon us."

"Yes, and no." Angela's only response to Arya's narrowed eyes was to beam. "As I said, I have a feeling I was meant to come find you here, and so I did, and so that be. I did not set out with the intention of locating you, however. I was out to replenish my supplies of grass and seed and weed."

"You couldn't find that closer to Belatona?" Eragon inquired.

"Normal grass and weed, yes," the herbalist responded, continuing with her collecting. "But my special supplies, for my medicines and crueler supplements, are harder to find. Some Varden children got into my stores and slipped them into the drinks of their friends. The infirmary was full for a few days, if you recall."

Eragon did indeed. He and Arya exchanged a glance, and finally Arya seemed to relax. As if the absurd words of Angela had finally soothed her into contentment again. "Were the children punished?"

"Oh, no," Angela said, giggling. "I was less than disgruntled. It always pleases me when the children become so mischievous so young. Makes for some very amusing adult lives. Speaking of having fun, how have you two been sleeping lately?"

If Eragon went pale at Angela's words, Arya was whiter than the peak of the highest mountain in the Beors. Her mental curse was so strong that Eragon felt it through her walls, and despite himself he almost laughed. His own mortification blasted away the amusement, however, and Angela began chortling uncontrollably as she beheld the two of them. To Eragon's horror, Saphira swelled at his embarrassment and laughed even harder than the herbalist did. _Well played, witch._

"You needn't worry," Angela said, wiping away a tear from her eye and trying to adopt a somber expression. "It's not as if rumors are widespread. To the select few who are aware of the arrangements, the mistaking of one rider's tent for another is kept as much a secret as it was when it began."

"How do you know this?" Arya demanded, her voice so low and threatening that Eragon felt genuine fear for Angela's life, although he doubted actual attack would occur. "And you said you have been gathering throughout the morning. How were you aware that a new dragon egg had hatched?"

"Dear," Angela began, "when people realize that I need not messengers or minds to carry me news, they will truly start to evolve into some shadow of intelligent creature."

She proceeded to laugh, and Eragon shuddered at the insinuations of power. Arya meanwhile cursed under her breath and wrapped her hand again around her sword. Quickly, she stood and jumped towards her pile of clothes, pulling them on with furious speed. Angela appeared indifferent but finally stopped her chuckles as Arya's skin continually disappeared beneath the layers of her leather once more. Eragon watched regretfully as the pile disappeared beneath her hands and she became fully clothed once more.

Upon the completion or recovering her form, Arya walked over to where the hatchling was lapping at the water and scooped it into her arms. Without even a nod towards the herbalist, she turned to Eragon and said, "I will see you at the feast."

He waited until she had stormed into the forest, disappearing with inhuman speed between the trees with the protesting dragon still in her arms, to scowl at Angela, who appeared undeterred. "Thanks," he growled, allowing his true feelings to surface in the absence of his elven companion.

"Weep not, Rider," she replied, continuing about in her business with the same expressions seemingly scarring her face. "She is simply in denial. Someday it will pass."

"She's not denying her fate at all. You just annoyed her until she decided it was better for her to leave than stay."

Angela stopped in the middle of pulling something from the ground and turned around to face him. She regarded his face for a moment before shaking her head and grumbling to herself. She glanced once at Saphira and said so that he could hear, "Men… they're worthless but for their ability to allow procreation of more females to sort out the world."

Saphira gave him the same doubtful glare that Angela had fixed upon herself. Eragon thought about questioning their incredulousness, but decided that he stood no chance of winning any argument of man's uselessness whilst outnumbered. Continuing to appear perplexed about him for whatever he had misunderstood, Angela roamed about as she would.

He watched her silently for awhile, prodding over the world and everything anew that had become of it, before asking, "How _did_ you know to come here, know that the egg had hatched and exactly where to find it?"

Angela grinned again. "It's funny how we say knowing but we really mean believing. Believing is really no different than knowing, only one is self-describing and other is all-understanding."

"I wouldn't describe believing as a feeling restricted to individual people," Eragon replied. "The elves don't know as a fact that the gods exist, and so in the absence of knowing they choose to believe otherwise."

"But that is exactly my point, young rider. In absence of knowing there is nothing left to do but believe, and so to the thinker of such precise thoughts the beliefs become just as valuable as what you would call 'knowledge'. So, in relation to your question, suffice it to say that I simply know what I believe, and what I believe allows me to understand things that would make the minds of even some elves tremble and burst. Oh, and what I _believe_… brought me to you and the beautiful princess today."

Eragon considered her points in silence where once he would have grunted and forgotten them without a second thought. He was long since dismissing anything Angela said as nonsense, and while her words meant little to him he could feel Saphira trying to unravel them as if they were an intricate riddle that could not remain untouched. The wind turned over them for a several few minutes, before the witch spoke unprompted.

"And if Arya would stop knowing and start believing, _I_ believe we would all see a difference in the world."

Eragon blinked. "What does that mean?"

Angela shrugged with a weary grin, and cast a hand to her temple before removing it and looking not to him or Saphira but across the lake she said, "Do you really expect me to know, Eragon?"

He didn't reply, and without further ordeal the herbalist reached down and gathered up the remainder of her items into her arms. As Solembum and Arya and now she had done before him, her figure retreated quickly into the shadows of the trees as the clouds drifted by overhead, and, as Eragon said nothing to call her back or inquire further on her words, she vanished in the fleeting branches of the pine trees.


	23. 22: Feasts, Friends, Foes

…**and now I'm just being annoying. :)**

**Thanks to reviewers: restoringthehistory, Tsukune08, Sable1212, Masteroftime, RestrainedFreedom, Akiza1, Wolfyman123, theonewhobreathesfire, BlackQueen92, Halcyon5, The Meepsta, Warden18, Elvendiath, kmc995 and X-Awsome-UserName-X.**

**Disclaimer: If you write it, hell will come.**

**22**

**Feasts, Friends, Foes**

In the night, Belatona came alive. With fire and fury.

The parties were wild. Dances that blatantly defied sanity to the beating of incredibly loud drums covered the streets. Men forgot their dignity for the evening and gave into their joy, losing themselves in the music, grabbing anything closely resembling a woman and pulling them into the lanes to spin in circles madly. There was no order to the chaos, and in the middle of city squares bonfires were piled and lit in the night, spilling worth the flames which put forth the furious passion and lust the Varden had forgotten and now experienced in a rush. Drink was plenty and abused, and if there was not a man drunk they had already been knocked unconscious. Anarchy knew no pandemonium like these celebrations, and the leaders apparently knew there was no stopping them, for if anyone was dispatched to calm the crowds they merely joined in with the festivities.

So plentiful and gay was the merriment that Eragon was able to slip though the midst of the insane dancing and spraying drink without a soul noticing him, though a great deal of this he attributed to elven traits. Fleeting between men emptying barrels by the cartload, he wasn't assured the men even remembered why they drank their ale and sang their dances.

They were simply mad with a reason, after so long, to be happy.

_Oh, the brilliancy and idiocy of men_, Saphira lamented from the sky as he continually weaved his way towards the governor's home. Nasuada's tent had proven too difficult to secure, in the event of the parties of men, and the governor had quite graciously offered his estate for the purpose of holding a private feast.

Eragon grinned at her words. _They could be like elves. Blind and cold and careful but still blind._

_Elves are not blind, _she replied. _They simply selfishly hide their secrets and their ways. They are quite aware they do what they do._

Eragon dodged as a cackling man nearly fell atop him, dragging a giggling girl no older than fifteen with him. As he moved forth with disdain, a woman he presumed to be the girl's mother pursued the couple with vehement protests. They ignored her and rushed further into the crowd. Glancing after them, he remarked, _I fear even the honorable will do evil tonight._

_Short of pursuing them yourself, there is clearly nothing you can do, _Saphira said. _If you do so, perhaps one less man will have to right his wrongs in the morning. However, you cannot stop every injustice, and the Varden celebrate their own victories as much as yours. Their fate is not your responsibility._

_Will I feel guilty should I hesitate to intervene?_

_It is out of your hands now._

As well as he could, he ignored as much of the men and dodged as much of the drink as he was able to as he continued along his way. He found as he approached the gates to the governor's courtyard that the celebrations extended all the way to the walls behind which the feast of the highest officials was to be held.

In the darkness of the shadows and the flickering light of bonfires, the guards behind the gate had to squint to recognize him as he made to enter. They rebuked him harshly, but upon finally catching his face in a rare moment of light, they cried out in dismay and were hasty to allow him entry, murmuring, "Apologies, Shadeslayer. We did not realize it was ye. We beg your forgiveness."

Trying not to appear too bemused by their reactions, Eragon cast the matter aside with a flick of his wrist. "Your actions were understandable. There is no need for apologies. As you were."

Leaving the guards half-bewildered and half-gratified, Eragon waited just inside the courtyard, watching Saphira land. Unlike the wilder parties of the streets, the air was too frigid to hold the more regal feast that was about to take place, and a gigantic tent had been set up immediately over the path to the governor's front door. Eragon could glimpse lords and captains already exchanging pleasantries around large tables, their wives murmuring their own conversations in the background, and as his blue partner-of-mind soared out of the sky to land lightly beside him almost all who could see gasped in awe at the beauty of the flight.

"Hail, Shadeslayer!"

Eragon turned to behold Roran, dressed in much finer a tunic than his cousin had ever before seen him wearing, and with a great smile the dragon rider embraced the larger man's arms. "Hail, Stronghammer. You look famished."

"Aye, and thirsty, too," Roran grinned, beckoning to the pavilion where they would momentarily begin their meal. A multitude of leaders sidled up and offered their greetings to Eragon. Thanks to Saphira's presence, to Eragon's relief, they kept the majority of their words short and to the point. "Tonight, we celebrate, and all beer is free to the best drinker of us all!"

Several of the Varden's commanders cheered. Abruptly, their voices halted in the night as Nasuada stepped out of the tent, garbed in an elegant black dress that was rimmed and laced with white trim. On each side of her stood an Urgal and a dwarf each, the dwarves dressed in ceremonial armor than glinted in the firelight like gems. All those present immediately quieted and bowed their heads in respect before she marched towards Eragon. The rider himself froze, as did Saphira, and waited patiently for his liegelord to speak as she stepped up the aisle that had formed almost subconsciously before him.

Finally, Eragon swallowed his seething mass of emotion and inclined his head as a vassal does. "My Lady."

Nasuada returned his nod, respectfully. "I am glad you are here. It is almost time for us to feast. All we care await for now is our main guest."

"I am here."

The voice from behind Eragon made every head not inside of the tent swivel behind him, a mass of snapping necks that, for a second, nearly drowned out the slamming of drums that resonated from the streets. Though the facial reactions were minimal, Eragon could read the surprise in the eyes of the men. Bracing himself for the sudden feelings he may experience as Nasuada stepped to the left of him to see behind, he pivoted to observe the newest arrival.

Arya's face and hair looked little different than normal. The strands of her hair that may have otherwise been restrained by a band flowed freely, spilling over her shoulders. Her eyes were as piercing and mystic as always. The surprising feature of the occasion was that she had stamped away her elven pride and dignity and donned a dress for the evening. As beautiful as the hatchling on her shoulder and equal in color, the green garment was the simplest form of human women's wear she could have decided to dress in for the evening, but the simple strings that tied together along her arms and over the few inches of shoulder visible before the covering dress swallowed her delightful skin spoke attractiveness to Eragon more than the most eccentric garb could have. The cloth hung loose but firm down her form until it reached her waist, where it flowed into a skirt that spread just past her shoulder width. The hatchling on her shoulder was still and quiet, watching them all.

To his relief, it was easy for Eragon to hide his reaction to the sight of her as he swiveled on the spot and pressed two fingers to his lips. As Arya mirrored him, before they could exchange forwards, Nasuada stepped forward. Between them. "Welcome, Arya Dröttningu, Argetlam and friend. I am most grateful to you for joining us this evening as we celebrate the hatching of your beautiful dragon."

Eragon saw distaste flash through Arya's eyes, and imagined Nasuada did as well, but her reply was pleasant in tone. "It is my honor to attend. I thank you."

"Come," Nasuada said, holding out an arm and directing Arya forward. Every eye in the pavilion found her as the elf paced fluidly forward until she was even with the Varden's leader, and together the two women followed a straight path back into the tent. Eragon followed a step behind, and Saphira traveled widely in his wake.

Every person they passed had eyes only for the elf of their company, though, for once in his experience, Eragon couldn't tell whether it was because of her beauty or the hatchling perched on her shoulder. He said nothing, as no one addressed him, although Nasuada occasionally whispered words to Arya that he could not hear over the praise heaped upon her by the lords.

The tables had been laid out in square formation around the pavilion with a large gap in the center, so that all of those present could be seated and still view each other equally. Nasuada and her guards led Arya around towards the very center of the tables on the edge farthest from the door, where three seats larger than the others, the middle one the largest of the three, rested. She turned to them both, finally addressing Eragon once more when they arrived. "It would honor me greatly if you sat beside me tonight, Arya." The elf nodded once, and without further prompt or a chance for Eragon to be chivalrous, she sat in the leftmost chair of the three.

The hatchling hopped immediately onto the table and began to explore as Nasuada turned to him. "If you would, Eragon, it would please me to have you also at my right hand."

Eragon saw little alternative, though he would have much rather desired to sit next to Arya, as much to remain closer to the hatchling as to satiate his personal attraction. As it were, he merely nodded and proceeded to seat himself to the right of the large chair, saying to Saphira, _I suppose you'll want to be right near me._

_Already here._ From behind him, he felt the air became briefly warmer for a split second, and then Saphira's face pushed underneath the tent fabric, ripping nails to hold the cloth in place from the ground. Making enough room so her neck and front claws could extend comfortably through with her, she pushed the tent far enough out of her way so that it still protected the company from the wind but allowed her the access she desired. Grunting contently, she sat on her haunches and stared at the group of startled leaders and captains.

Abruptly, a laugh exploded from amongst the group, and Eragon's head snapped to them in time to see Roran stifle his amusement and proceed to take a seat amongst the chairs. Joining in his cousin's merriment, the others immediately began to imitate him, and as the Nighthawks took their place and Nasuada took her seat, less and less were standing until all those who were to be seated had taken their chairs. Jörmunder seated himself immediately to Arya's left, and an inordinately large chair that had been laid out next to Eragon's was occupied gingerly by Nar Garzhvog.

Gradually, movement ceased and the tent became silent. When no further noise was to be heard, Nasuada smiled and stood. Instantly, every eye was on her and every ear digested each word that escaped from her lips as she spoke, glancing at them all, one-by-one and in turn, delivering their victory to them.

"Friends," she began. "Throughout the parts of the world that we have already freed, it is a joyous day. We gather here to celebrate not only our capture of this great city Belatona and the great city Feinster, but also to acknowledge and spread the fantastic word of the newest rider to Alagaësia. Tonight, we break bread and we swallow drink to pay tribute to all things that have led to our successes, and to wish us luck as we conquer Galbatorix' empire once and for all. Let us feast!"

There was a chorus of goodwill around the table as men smiled and clapped each other on their backs, and as they made these motions servants and chefs began to enter the tent pushing trays and carrying platters covered with food, laying them about the far edges of the table where all who desired them could be reached. With equal cries of delight, the captains dove into the plates of fresh food, a delicacy little known to them of late and one Eragon was slightly surprised Nasuada had allowed. Their growing shortage of supplies was no large secret, but he rationalized that she must have either calculated over the reward to her men or discovered a new way to feed the army. Either way, the chops and steaks and fruit and bread laid before them was as wonderful as ever, and Eragon realized that by restraining his hand until Nasuada took her share of food from the plates around them he risked having none left for himself.

It was a grand feast, to be sure, and as the conversations developed even as the food diminished, Eragon was sure all were in good spirits.

Nasuada's attentions mainly went to Arya, as she and the elf and Jörmunder spent a majority of the meal in grand discussion. Though Eragon continually exchanged a few words with Garzhvog, who devoured as much meat as four men, one eye was always watching the rider on the opposite side of Nasuada's chair, and he noticed as the meal wore on that her sentences became shorter and her expressions less enthusiastic.

_I always imagined I would feel left out when I was finally _not_ the center of attention, _Eragon remarked to Saphira, the scraps of green and fruit that littered his plate gone into his stomach. _However, now that's it here… I sort of find it blissful._

_Indeed, _Saphira replied, and he couldn't restrain a smile at her slightly slurred words. He imagined the brewers' dismay as they discovered four barrels of their precious ales swallowed by a single entity in under an hour.

_And now reliance will not be solely upon us. We have comrades._

_Exceptional. _With a flare that extended a foot from her nostrils, Saphira belched, momentarily startling the entire room. Eragon decided it was best to leave her with her drink until she herself began the conversation, watching the men laugh at his dragon before returning to their heaping plates.

Nasuada turned to him, having found a conversation in which he was presumably required to be a part of. As she spoke, he registered the fact that Arya was all too eager to unload all discussion unto him. "And soon the training will begin, I assume."

"Soon," Eragon agreed, his words few and his tongue heavy. "The hatchling will have to reach the stage where he and Arya can converse independently. Then it will be mature enough for us to begin its learning."

Nasuada nodded. "Of what will that entail?"

He hesitated, and it was too long for him to cover it up with mere thought. Arya's eyes betrayed as much caution as his mind exuded, and it wasn't until Nasuada appeared ready to say something else that he finally replied. "I would prefer to keep that to ourselves. Please do not order me to divulge it. It is knowledge and ways that should be left to the Riders."

He watched Nasuada consider his words for several moments. "As you wish." To his surprise, she bent closer to him, turning her back briefly to Arya. "I do not expect you to tell me everything, Eragon, but there are things that I _do_ expect to keep informed of. I place it as your responsibility to make sure I am aware of exactly how much you and Arya are capable of, and the brink over which you two cannot be pushed."

He had no chance to reply as she straightened to her original posture and replaced the content expression upon her face she had worn for the duration of the meal. Setting her eyes upon the hatchling, the leader of the Varden smiled warmer, though while distracted by Arya's confused and suspicious glare Eragon couldn't determine the authenticity of the gesture. "He really is quite beautiful."

"Yes," Arya replied evenly. Her eyes left Eragon and traveled to the emerald creature she could call hers. "He is."

"Have you decided what to name him yet?"

"He will decide his own name." She reached out a finger and rested it against the hatchling's nose. "That is the custom, to allow the dragons the honors they are guaranteed by their own culture. I will offer a selection, and hopefully he will choose the one he so desires for himself."

"When he is old enough to comprehend you?"

Arya blinked, and Eragon was sure it was to restrain herself from snapping at Nasuada. "That is correct."

Nasuada glanced once between elf and dragon and said no more. For a human, Eragon knew her remarkable perceptivity capabilities and would not have been surprise had she detected the level of tension that nearly caused Arya to break composure. Needless to say, whether by design or improvisation, the conversation ended there.

Food was delivered until every person seated around their collection of tables could down another pound, and then all of the plates were removed by servants. The men gradually broke out in ravenous, buoyant conversation about the room. Jokes at each other's expense were hollered across the gaps of the table, the gigantic laughter echoing into the surrounding pavilion. The jokes descended into storytelling, many of them greatly exaggerated by any who spoke with a loose tongue. Eragon heard Roran retell his epic tale of taking the entire village across the Spine, across the sea from Narda to Teirm and his audacious navigation of the horrific maelstrom the Boar's Eye, all for his lady Katrina. Men toasted to the true story, glancing around for the fairest of maidens to send a man across Alagaësia, only to find her not in attendance. Their empty expressions were soon forgotten as their night continued joyously.

After a brief amount of time, Nasuada stood and clapped her hands. The room went silent and all eyes swiveled to her, obedience and devotion clear in the mens' and womens' eyes alike. "I believe," the ebony-skinned woman said slowly, "that no meal as grand as ours shall be complete without a dance."

A moment of stunned silence passed, and then the men began to cheer once again. At Nasuada's direction, all stood and the tables were lifted by the men, moving them back against the walls of the tent. The two Urgal Nighthawks hauled Nasuada's chair to the front of one, and as she made her way to stand in front of it she beckoned to an opening in the tent, and a minstrel band rushed in, to the happy roars of the leaders inside. Without prompt, a song was strung up, and the drunker men were the quickest to grab their ladies and swing them into the very center of the tent.

Stepping out of the way and assuming a seat next to Nasuada's chair as she took it, Eragon made quick to remove himself from the picture before any stray lady could ask him to dance, unbeknownst or perhaps even known to her husband. He had no desire to join the wild mass of bodies twirling in the center as men laughed carelessly and woman screamed joyously to the moving tune the minstrels had wildly strung together. Fiddles zoomed away along strings as feet twisted incoherently around each other, and Eragon was quite content to remain away from the fun.

Instead, he watched Arya, who had been as quick as him to resume a seat opposite Nasuada. From the glances the Varden's leader continually shot them both, she was displeased that they hadn't joined the dance, but Eragon was not eager to appease her this time. As for Arya, he could only imagine how many reasons she held for not indulging in human celebration. There was, no doubt, a limit to the number of captivated men who would have asked her for the dance, but her ferocity was well known amongst the Varden and this was probably the reason not a soul asked her for her hand as the minstrels continually strung from tune to tune, varying the atmosphere and emotion as they went.

Attempting to avoid staring, forced to observe the spinning arrangements of couples enjoying themselves, Eragon began debating whether or not he could risk asking her to dance himself. The personal embarrassments at risk were numerous, but he would be overjoyed if she accepted.

_If you think of it so, _Saphira interrupted his thoughts, _it is probably best for you to avoid it_.

Eragon hesitated_. She has come to my tent every night since my duel with Murtagh. She waited for me to awake and you say she cried when everyone thought I would die. If only as a treasured companion, perhaps it would not be a fool's endeavor._

_Do as you will, but she will reject you as you have never failed to be rejected in the past._

Eragon was unprepared for the level of hurt that shot through his heart at Saphira's words. He recoiled, shocked. He tried to put his discomfort and horror into words, but found he could do it in no way that did not sound as if he were weak and soft-hearted. Instead, he let his angst seep into their link, and felt her disgruntlement.

_I meant no offense, little one, _she replied, but the pain didn't diminish. He withdrew from their connection, rationalizing that the mead had no doubt allowed her tongue to slip where otherwise she would have held it. Nevertheless, he was in no mood to reinitiate conversation after such an insult, even from her.

With Saphira's words, however, he found his desire to ask Arya for a dance completely dissolved. He crossed his arms in obvious discomfort and began to watch the floor in silence, the dances and movements become one underneath his eye of little scrutiny. He became aware that he was sulking, but also reasoned that he did not care.

He remained that way until Nasuada stood from her tall chair and turned to him.

To his innocuous surprise, just as the minstrels began to play a song that could be danced in no other form but civilized, she reached down and pulled one of his hands from where it rested in the crook of his opposite arm, and stated, "Dance with me, Eragon."

Too shocked to do anything but obey, he allowed her to pull him to his feet, and, as almost everyone paused in awe and surprise to watch, she lead him between couples until they were at the center of the floor. Several couples tripped and even the minstrels faltered over a note. As she turned to face him, however, to his dismay, the song resumed, the couples acted as if nothing out of place had occurred, and she instigated the dance with him.

He fumbled over the first few steps, a bow and curtsy, then a pass with an upraised hand and a spin of the lady back to beginning position. Luckily, and thankfully, she seemed aware of his total obliviousness and lead him as simply as possible through the steps, and as seconds passed and he memorized the moves for himself he finally realized what he was doing.

Dancing with the grand leader of the Varden. In front of everyone important to their cause.

And he was their Rider.

Distracting him from their thoughts, to his additional horror, as they spun around each other in moves not terribly complicated but over which his mind stumbled, Nasuada spoke to him in so low a voice even he had to strain to hear. "Thinking back, Eragon, I regret how I spoke last night. I was out of my place, although I stand by my decision. I committed much disrespect to you and Arya, however, and I fear it will affect our relationship in ways I don't want. For that, I am very sorry."

His mind was multitasking, trying to follow their mutual movements and register her words at the same time. On both accounts, he was thoroughly surprised, and his stumbling response was humble. "You… I never thought… I appreciate your apology, my Lady, and I accept it graciously. I am unprepared for the rift I felt between us as a consequence, but now, thankfully, it is no more."

To his relief, she smiled, stepping around him, spinning along his outstretched arm, and curtsying as they followed the dance. Eragon was uncomfortably aware of the multitude of gazes that followed their twirl, the whispers of the wives in the corner as they giggled like schoolgirls watching them, but it was as if to Nasuada they were the only two there as she replied. "You have no idea how glad I am to hear you say it. I am not ashamed to say I gain politically from this as well, but it is our personal relationship I feared losing the most."

"As did I," Eragon said, although he was rapidly reviewing her words, staring into her eyes subtly, and doing everything he could to discover every last inkling of her meaning. Unless he was overlooking something, the moment was developing into a situation he had never before imagined.

Nasuada's smile widened at his words. "I'm not sure how you must feel about our newest arrival. I imagine its presence is a relief, but I can't tell whether or not being the only dragon rider no longer is having a positive effect on you. There are reasons to either side of the argument, and when I have placed myself where you stand I cannot decide whether I would feel either of those ways."

"It is both a relief, and a blessing," he replied. The dance shifted directions, and they went seamlessly with it. "I have never desired to be alone when I faced Galbatorix, but it was a fate I guess I just assumed would become truth. Now… now that image is false, and I will no longer be the last hope."

"Only our first, and now our adjoined only. Do not think that because there is another rider the Varden will devote any less of their admiration and loyalty to you as both their icon and a leader."

"If they follow me because they emulate me," Eragon said, "then perhaps they are too misguided for me to be considered a good role model."

"Forgive me, I misspoke," Nasuada replied, holding unusually strongly to his hand as they altered positions once more. "They do not worship you as if you were a deity. They merely look up to you and seek to serve in any way that would support you. You represent everything they have fought for their entire lives, as does Arya now. They will look upon you equally… but you will always have their first heart."

The song, though never ending, apparently shifted routine, for Nasuada spun in conjunction with the few ladies still on the floor and ended her stance much closer to Eragon's body. Her right hand clasped itself with Eragon's left, held above their shoulder height, and her hand flew to rest atop his opposite shoulder. As he had seen happen in so many dances in Carvahall as a youth, he quickly placed his unoccupied hand against her hip, conscious every second of how close their bodies were and exactly how his appendages were positioned. If anything, Nasuada's grin widened and they continued the dance.

Their conversation went unspoken any further until Eragon realized that she had spoken last. Several moments elapsed before he remembered where her words had left off and formulated an appropriate response. "In any case, I _am_ overjoyed that the green egg has hatched, and happy that it chose an experienced fighter already for its rider."

"That does simplify things, doesn't it?" Nasuada said.

As best he could while dancing, Eragon shrugged. "Things are never simple where dragons are concerned."

Nasuada tilted her head to one side, and the light from the nearest enclosed torch flame reflected mysteriously across her skin. "I feel as if anyone who has ever known better has told me those words every time I question them. My father, Arya, Islanzadi. It is as if everything we understand is flawed if we cannot understand it on the scale that you do, Eragon. And that is not a statement of irritation. It's fact."

"At least you understand _that_," Eragon said with a smile.

She grinned back, but it was marred by a hint of solemnity. "I wonder what my father would see if he could see today… two dragon riders in existence, adjoining with each other even in one's youth to form together as hasn't been seen since the Fall. His daughter dancing with one of them. I can't even imagine what his reaction would be."

"I'm sure he would be proud," Eragon said, slowly, trying to sound certain. Nasuada's gaze had turned so far off that he felt as though his words should tread lightly. "Proud of _you_, and everything you've accomplished."

Her eyes traveled back to rest in his, and he became aware of the fantastically illegitimate distance between their bodies. Her smile returned. "There is no pride in doing your duty, as I see it, Eragon. Fulfilling the stretches of your responsibility is your debt to life, and I am simply upholding that responsibility."

"I disagree," Eragon said. "I think that your actions define you, and the definition is direct to your character." He twirled her around and led her in an arc. "The strength that a leader possesses in merely managing to make others follow deserves more pride than a king can ever claim upon simply assuming a throne. And that is something I know your father would have believed."

As they came back together in their original joining, there was something he couldn't identify in her eye, but the look on her face was one of a joy he had never before beheld unto her. "Thank you, Eragon."

Acting oblivious, he replied, "For what, my Lady?"

"For stepping on my toe three moves ago and not realizing."

Startled, Eragon's head snapped towards the ground in horror. The moment he did so, Nasuada broke out into a fit of what he could only identify as a hysterical giggle, half-contained and half-unrestrained. The moment he realized that a joke had been effortlessly pulled over his head he made to reprimand her, stopped at the last moment by his fealty to her. The look of amusement that crossed her features, however, looked so out of place that he couldn't help himself and broke out into a laugh nearly as uncontrolled as hers. Both struggled to retain composure and neither managed, ending in them sporting smiles contorted into grimaces as they held in their laughter.

She shook her head at him, desperately trying to recover a straight face as she did so. She clearly tried to say something but could not, for additional fear of losing herself. Eragon could only imagine what the scene looked like to the onlookers around them, and decided that after everything of late he especially didn't care. In an effort to retain some sense of dignity in front of his liegelord, he turned his eyes over her shoulder to neutralize his expression—

The stone cold gaze that met him there nearly knocked him over.

It was gone instantly; Arya's eyes swept high and away and began scrutinizing the ceiling of the tent on the opposite side of the way, but the intensity and ice of the stare remained, striking at Eragon's heart as he was abruptly ignored. He felt the smile disappear from his face, simultaneously sobering at the harsh resentment he had seen in her look before she glanced away. Even the hatchling that sat atop her shoulder appeared intent on avoiding his eyes. Confusion seeped into him at the same moment as regret, but he could not identify why the regret seemed to amplify concurrently as the confusion grew, nor why Arya had been regarding him as she had been.

As he tried to meet her eye again—and failed—he registered in the corner of his eye how Nasuada's smirk had disappeared as well. She did not turn to follow his gaze, however; perhaps she had guessed the source, or merely believed it was a thought that plagued him. Arya continued to ignore him, giving no further indication of her actions, and he slowly turned back to Nasuada and tried to grin.

His liegelord's eyes narrowed in concern as his returned to hers. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, sorry," Eragon said quickly. Too quickly; he cursed himself. He struggled for an excuse. "I think Saphira just passed out… I'm sorry, my Lady, you know how she is around mead…"

To his relief, Nasuada simply glanced over once at his dragon, who had indeed adopted a slumber a few long moments before, and merely shook her head once more with a smirk. "Indeed. No matter. I hope she wakes before morning, however, or we will have some difficulty removing the tent."

Eragon forced a laugh, making it almost sound genuine. The elf sitting next to the leader of the Varden's high chair had yet to return her gaze to him, although every second he was waiting for it. "I'll make sure she does. You should've seen some of the times she drank with the dwarves. It was utter—" His words ended midsentence as he transparently stared at Arya rise slowly from the chair and stroll with elven speed from the tent, barely disturbing the flaps of the tent as she went. Amongst many drunk, many slumbering, and many humans too polite to inquire, her disappearance went unnoticed, despite the purpose of the celebration being her.

He became aware of the stupidity he appeared to be displaying and hastily finished his words rather blandly. "—chaos."

Nasuada's eyes narrowed once more. "Eragon, are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm perfectly fine." It was taking every muscle in his body to prevent himself from ripping his hands from Nasuada's body and sprinting after Arya. Unwilling to risk offending his liegelord by abandoning her mid-dance, however, he held his place and swallowed any possible excuses from his lips. "It's merely been a long few days."

Nasuada appeared unconvinced, but she merely smiled sheepishly and danced on. They spoke no more as the minstrels spun their songs; Eragon was too distracted and Nasuada seemed to detect that something was wrong. Suddenly finding it incredibly difficult to follow the steps of their feet, Eragon reached out to Arya's mind and felt nothing. Not even a wall. She was completely masking her presence from him.

The dance couldn't end soon enough. As the fiddles strung their last note, Eragon spun away and bowed as rapidly as he possibly could whilst remaining polite. Impatiently allowing Nasuada to curtsy to him in turn before speaking, he bowed a second time and said, "Forgive me, my Lady, but it is late, Saphira has passed out, and I require my own rest. Excuse me."

"Of course, Eragon," she replied, but there was no mistaking the clear suspicion she was exhibiting. "Thank you for the dance. And I'm glad you chose to attend."

He noticed she neglected to acknowledge that it had been her command, not his choice, that brought him there. "It was my honor… and my pleasure, my Lady." Hoping to appease her, he allowed a smile to grace his features and eyes as he bowed a third time and quietly withdrew. Before anyone could ask or even catch that he was departing, he had left the tent as quickly as Arya.

He rushed into the city, dashing through the bonfires and bodies that still celebrated as if the night was not growing old and the morning would never come. In the swirling mass that was never-ending ecstasy, it was impossible to find Arya amongst them, even for him. Desperately, he rushed through gaps and dodged flying liquids and objects and glanced everywhere his eyes would take him for some sign of her, only to discover that none existed.

For hours he searched, ignoring the discomfort and exhaustion that slowly crept upon him. His quest became an obsession in the night, until finally he left the city with the rationale in his mind that she could not have been in any shadow, hiding from him and the rest of the world.

He was on the edge of giving up, trudging into the grassy plains around Belatona in the wintry night air. He didn't know nor care where he would fall asleep. Saphira was passed out in the celebratory feast and would definitely remain that way into the next morning, if not much longer than that. He might collapse in the cold, but he doubted anything as simple as a chilled wind could prevent him from sleeping in the state he was in. He began to wander aimlessly in the hills, holding a clandestine hope that he would fortune upon stumbling across Arya in the hills.

He skirted Belatona for mere minutes before a shadow of unnatural shape stopped him dead in his tracks forward of his position. He only hesitated a moment before amplifying his arrival, making sure there was no surprise in his presence. Wishing not to disturb her, or the hatchling dozing in the grass at her feet, he moved closer and sat down at least five paces from where she herself resided, a respectable distance.

She still wore the green dress. Cross-legged, she rested with her face up towards the distance, her hair as unrestrained as when they feasted and dancing around her face in the wisps of the wind. To all outward appearances, she hadn't noticed his arrival, and made no motion to suggest such. Both of her hands rested on the belly of her dragon, as if to make sure it didn't float into the sky in its slumber. It seemed to Eragon as if hours past without words, both of them merely sitting there, as if time no longer existed. He wasn't sure of the time, nor when the sun would rise, but his previous tiredness seemed to have disappeared, and he traded off stares at her and his hands.

Eons later, she finally stirred. "The winds have grown cold."

He hadn't spoken in so long that he croaked before he managed to reply. "They have. The seasons seem to have finally changed."

"It marks the beginning of the final stages of our plans unto Galbatorix… and the first tests of myself and my dragon." Her left hand twitched on the hatchling's belly, in a mindless stroke of adoration.

Eragon hesitated, then threw caution to the wind. "Are you well, Arya? You left the feast in such haste that you had me concerned. Is everything all right?"

Her reply was a moment in coming. "I am well. My mind was occupied and all of them seemed to be enjoying themselves just fine without me joining in. I wished to be removed from the humans, and I apologize if I startled you."

Eragon could hear the intentional warmth on her voice; she was acting as though the incident he had observed whilst dancing with Nasuada had never happened. "I'm sure Nasuada was disappointed you didn't join in the festivities."

Her body stiffened; he felt it through the grass. It took her a long moment to relax, and even then there was tension he detected in your voice. "Nasuada is aware I was not there for the festivities. My presence was a favor to her, and no more. If she expected any more, she obviously has a great deal more to learn about my behavior."

He couldn't read her at all. Her voice was a complete mystery, and he quickly chose to change the subject. "I'm glad you came."

For the first time since her arrival, her head shifted, turning towards him. It was a starless night, but he could still see her in the dark, her brilliantly emerald eyes watching him in the darkness. The briefest of grins glinted onto her face, and after a flickering moment where he thought she would conceal it, he was happy to see it remain. "For all of the political gain that was not yours nor mine."

"Politics matters little in life if you can't enjoy yourself. Especially nights like tonight."

Her smile was gone, her gaze was distant, and he slapped himself as he realized he must have said something wrong. "Then perhaps it was best at least one of us enjoyed the night." There was a faint edge of sting in her voice, and he debated whether or not he should remove himself from her presence, anxious as she suddenly seemed. His presence might be negatively contributing, and that was the last thing he wanted. Just when he had decided to move, she spoke again. "He has grown already."

Eragon blinked, unsure of what she meant for several moments. He glanced down at the hatchling as he realized what she meant. "In their infancy, they grow at incredible rates. Saphira ate through more meat in her first week than I would have in six months."

"And soon I will have opportunity to ride him. I dream now of what that will feel like. Knowing he is _my_ dragon."

Together, they stared down at the green creature and wondered to themselves. Eragon cleared his throat. "He will be a magnificent dragon. And you just so, as his Rider."

In the dark, he barely caught the flash of green as her eyes descended upon his, and then were gone once more. He might have imagined it, but for the certainty that he had seen the very same emotions that had scarred her stare as he danced with Nasuada. Amongst them roiled a collective of items he couldn't begin to describe, and as she returned her gaze to the plains he found himself at a loss to place what he had seen.

"We will see."


	24. 23: Faölin

**I am not the first one to use the story aspect that is the central piece for this chapter. I don't know if I'd be lying should I tell you I would choose to include it in my own story had I not already read it in another, but, either way, I have chosen it. The credit is not mine, and belongs to someone else far better at writing fan fiction than I.**

**Thanks to reviewers: gift of roses, restoringthehistory, RestrainedFreedom, Tsukune08, Wolfyman123, Warden18, Elvendiath, Halcyon5, Mockingbirds, BlackQueen92, Masteroftime, YellowMouse, Draco Lucis, kmc995, Wodan, finaldragonquest, Unique Fantasiser, Thejasalex, CP1064 and xSuperNovax.**

**Disclaimer: Disclaiming from TWO parties, this time.**

**23**

**Faölin**

And then the winter came.

Two days after the night of the celebrations—while Arya still watched half of the Varden stumble around, hungover—the armies and people of Belatona awoke to find a standing snow on the ground and more falling, less than torrentially yet harder than lazily, from the sky. As if sucking the life from the place, Nasuada immediately ordered all troops that could fit inside of the city to bunker down anywhere possible without unduly disturbing the common citizens. Every alleyway and backstreet corner was loaded with tents where otherwise stronger shelters could not be erected, and all but roughly two hundred tents holding four hundred soldiers now resided behind Belatona's walls.

Eragon specially requested that his tent remain outside the walls, along with Saphira. Even as she noticed this, Arya made sure that she and her hatchling had shelter inside the city, where the dragon would be much safer and secure and where she could gain a comfortable distance from Eragon. A thinking distance. Where she could feel relatively undisturbed without being distracted by whatever foolishness might find its way into his path the next time.

The flurry of snow that began the mad migration into the city didn't let up. Within a night, it transformed into a harsh downfall, capped off by buffeting winds that tore some tent stakes beyond the walls from the ground and caused substantial drifts beyond the barriers of the city and against shops and homes. It let up after the one night, but it returned the next even heavier than the first, and by the time the morning came quietly there were nearly two feet of snow in some places around Belatona.

Travel beyond the city became impossible quickly. Saphira melted snow where she could help with her breath, but the majority of places that needed it the most were too close to easily flammable materials. The Varden essentially locked down as they had been preparing for, but Arya was sure there weren't many people that felt as if they had prepared enough.

As the first week passed and Nasuada ordered all soldiers and persons quartered inside Belatona no matter the discomfort to their fellow Varden, the hatchling that had yet to carry a name grew beyond even what Arya had expected. In a matter of days it went from standing just longer than her forearm to twice its original height and over a yard in length. In order to avoid any hindrance to the Varden's food supply, Saphira complement his own bird and rodent catches with hunts of her own, sharing their meals. Eragon told her many things about the early cycles of dragons that she had known before, yet now that she herself was in the situation she listened without protest or irritation. She would do nothing that would risk harm to the hatchling, no matter the cost to herself.

She slept on her own. Everyday—every evening—when Eragon left her and her partner-of-mind, he would hesitate for half a second before departing for his own bunk in a tent in some decrepit corner of the city, while she sheltered herself in a bed in the warmth of the governor's courtyard, where the leaders and their wives had been permitted to set up their camps. She knew when he hesitated that he was waiting to see if she would follow him. Follow him to his tent and bed as she had for many nights. For the comfort of his presence. But the witch's words of mockery hung heavily in her ears, and she refused to be so easily read and tricked again. No matter her personal feelings on the matter, there was absolutely no way she would be forced into that predicament again.

So, she let Eragon go every time, stone-faced, and she ignored the look of disappointment and sadness she caught in his eyes without fail. If it had been as simple as acting as if his discomfort was necessary sacrifice and excusable as human behavior, she would have no trouble whatsoever forcing the issue from her mind.

The problem with the situation was that she had difficulty believing he experienced any more discomfort than did she.

His presence alone had been treasured for the warmth his body exuded, a gift in the cold nights that represented prelude to the snows. Even in a cold bed, however, she found no difficulty in slipping into sleep. Once her eyes closed and her mind entered her dreams, however, demons that had been dormant for weeks battered at her, chasing away the pleasant feelings that had mysteriously held her instead. Physical pain met her in slumber, and there were times when she actually feared falling into sleep's embrace for the things she might find there.

In the dark hours of the night, however, the truly strange things began to occur.

As the very center of her terrors came to destroy her in the night, in the midst of the sleep where she actually admitted to herself that sleeping by Eragon's side chased away the unseen enemies that assailed her, the shadow that was familiar yet completely unknown to her swept her up in its invisible arms and flung aside the fiends that pained her. She knew not where the shadow came from or how it got into her mind, but she understood exactly what it did; it formed a wall of stone between her and the monsters, and enshrouded her in its protective light until her eyes awakened to the world again.

Nothing she had ever been taught, by elf or other creature, could explain to her what she was experiencing as she slept. The touch she seemed to know yet not know gave no indication of where it came from or how it got there. When it wasn't there, her nightmares taunted her; when it came, they were nowhere to be found. In the awakened world, she could barely comprehend it; when she was asleep, it was as if nothing mattered except the way she felt in its embrace.

Safe.

Whenever she awoke from the comfort of the shadow in the night, the hatchling had risen from its spot where it rested at her side. Its haunches always rested atop her curled and shaking body, and its head was raised away from her, as if watching the air for predators that meant harm. Only when she was fully awake and her breath had accelerated to a waking state did it turn its attention down to her, and for the first time in his short life she thought she actually detected comprehensible, intelligent emotion through their mental connection; love. If his eyes were any indication, the hatchling held nothing except for affection as it mysteriously stood over her, as if it knew what plagued her and charged itself with performing the physical protection the shadow performed inside of her mental faculties.

Furthermore, why whenever she roused from sleep naturally the hatchling was still fast asleep by her side, she could not explain.

The more days that passed by, the worse the weather became. Although Nasuada and Eragon discussed the issue as though it were a grievous hazard, Arya counted it as the blessing she saw it as. The heavier the snow and coarser the wind, the more difficult it would be for the black assassins and minions of Galbatorix to cut through the storms and do harm to her dragon and herself. There were Varden matters that accounted to her interpretations of the blessing, however; there numbers were greater than had been anticipated in plans, and rationing their food to last for months would only become a greater nuisance until finally it would develop into an actual threat in coming weeks. They were fortunate the dwarven army had chosen to winter in the mountains and join them in the spring, or there would have been serious issue indeed.

As the hatchling grew to be where its weight and bulk were too much for her to lift without difficulty, its presence became so that Arya often took him for excursions beyond the city walls with Eragon and Saphira, watching as he propelled himself upward, off the ground, attaining flight on his own, though clumsy.

It was a day where he tried to chase after a robin flitting between falling snowflakes when he gave Arya her first real surprise. Glancing at his efforts, she said into his mind, _Soon there will be fiercer creatures to fear you than birds._

Turning around to face her in the air, she watched the dragon's eyes turn from confusion into comprehension. _Bird._

The single word that emanated from the dragon's consciousness forced all words from her mind in its unexpectedness, and its wide broadcast caused Eragon's mouth to fall open next to her as they walked. Saphira, who rested in the snow decently ahead of them, grunted heavily in intrigue and approval.

She concealed her look of shock as quickly as she could, turning and feeling relieved when Eragon seemed not to notice. "Remarkable."

"Yes," Eragon agreed, smiling slightly, reserved, at her. "Soon he'll be talking more than Saphira, and most of his words will be for you, alone."

"And he will be named, then."

"Have you given him the names you know, to see if he likes any of them for himself?"

"I have received nothing except for blank stares and emotions as indications," she replied. They halted walking as the green hatchling, becoming less a hatchling every day, plopped into the snow close to Saphira and curled itself into a content ball, calmly watching the flakes dance in the air around it. "I take it that means it disapproves, as of yet. I have given it every name I can recall from every scroll and script I have ever read, and all those the stories have passed down to me."

"Perhaps he is meant to be unique, then. Something no other dragon has ever been called before." She glanced at him, but he was continually too busy staring at her dragon to notice her gaze.

She followed his eyes to the source of their captivation before he noticed her motion. "He already is unique. He is mine."

* * *

><p>One night—a cold night, though in relatively calm wind—she sat awake in bed, soothed out of a particularly horrible dream by the shadow and her dragon together. Her legs crossed, the dragon had dropped its defensive stance, and now rested half on the bed and half off; its size no longer allowed it to sleep comfortably next to her.<p>

As she watched the dragon and thought of the shadow that protected her, she wrapped her arms around herself and dug into her mind, allowing her emotions to unravel for a brief moment of vulnerability, where she could face the tension and stress she had long buried. When none could see her but a partner-of-mind who could not yet understand she allowed herself to shed tears for the loss of friends, and those who were not friends, that came far too soon. Pain that she could not let show. Especially to Eragon.

The tinge of familiarity that invaded her mind with the shadow rang through her as she allowed herself to show unguarded to an empty tent, and she yearned for comfort and the peace of another she knew… Eragon was her only option, but she could not go to him; he could not know her state, and she would not entertain the witch's taunts.

She drew the washing basin she had not emptied towards the bed with a simple spell that cost her little, and twirled her finger across the surface of the water as she cautiously regained hold of herself. Leaving the last ripples flowing across the edge of the liquid, she barely made sound as her lips incanted her desired spell.

A multitude of colors sprayed across the water for an extremely brief moment, and ended abruptly in the image of Queen Islanzadi hastily sitting up. She lay flat on the ground on a bed crafted of the earthern floor, shielded by trees and privatized from her subjects. Though retired, she wore gear that allowed her to be ready for battle at a minute's notice, and the fierce glare on her face showed that her mental abilities were just as prepared as her garb. The moment she recognized Arya in the mirror her daughter was no-doubt appearing in, however, the features of the queen's face softened and she turned on knees to better face the image.

Before Arya had a chance to begin the traditional greeting, Islanzadi spoke for her. "Arya, it pleases me to see your face. In the cold, family is the only thing that glows with warmth for my heart."

Momentarily taken aback at her mother's warm tone, Arya blinked before mustering a response. "As it pleases me to see yours, Mother."

Islanzadi smiled, as slightly as she could while the expression became prominent. "Was there something you needed? The hour is late for you to report to me."

Arya hesitated. She had spoken only three times with her mother since the green dragon resting half on and off her bed had hatched for her. Positive that Islanzadi could see the dragon as much as she could see her daughter, Arya was genuinely curious why the queen's first words hadn't regarded it. Pushing aside her feelings, she sought an answer that seemed plausible. "I apologize for intruding upon your rest. I… could not find sleep tonight."

Islanzadi's eyebrows rose. "There is no need for apology, my daughter. Tell me what your concerns are."

Again, Arya hesitated. "It is difficult for me to properly address them. I have no immediate concerns. Sleep simply eludes me."

"I would not assume for you to contact me on such matters," Islanzadi replied. Before Arya could take the statement a way the queen apparently did not desire, she added, "That does mean I am not glad you did so. However, cases such as these, it comes to my attention that you often seek out… Eragon for counsel."

Islanzadi tried to cover it, but Arya detected the briefest pause. She knew that Oromis' name had been on the tip of her tongue, and had barely escaped slipping out. Perhaps her mother was bluffing by insinuating Eragon's uniqueness for the situation as cover, but, though a strange move for an elf, Arya figured it was more bluff than actual knowledge. "Eragon has enough difficulties to deal with without clashing with any discomfort in sleep I may experience. He would not be prepared to understand what ails me, anyhow."

"And what ails you, Arya?" Islanzadi's voice had gone from curious to concerned. The emotion bled through so easily it could only have been allowed through the queen's barriers.

Through the mirror and water, mother and daughter locked eyes for several long moments. Arya looked away, forcing her eyes without difficulty unto the dragon at her toes. "I do not know."

"Tell me."

Arya sighed. "Mother…"

"We clash over the Varden, we clash over the elves," Islanzadi cut her off. "We disagree over your services, you distance yourself from my positions, I ignore your discrepancies. We are at odds with each other enough professionally to not afford allowing it to happen personally. You are my child, Arya. Please, leave our differences of the battlefield behind, and as your mother, tell me why you cannot sleep tonight."

Whether or not her mother spoke the complete truth to her at all times there were in communication as queen and ambassador, Arya didn't know; when she spoke in this moment, however—from mother to daughter, as she so put—Islanzadi seemed not to speak a word which wasn't true.

It stirred the sense of comfort inside of Arya that she so desperately craved and required at the moment. The sense of familiarity that didn't quite come close to rivaling that of the shadow of her dreams. "It begins simply. I fall asleep _simply_. Within minutes or so, the images flash before my mind's eyes… I see all the pain, the death of the battlefield, blood that has yet to be spilt from battles that haven't yet been fought and shall not for another hundred years. Excruciating agony, that attacks me in the form of every friend and comrade that I have ever lost or feared losing. Those closest to me." The words came unbidden from her mouth, as if planted there without effort by an unseen claw in her mind.

Islanzadi's brow furrowed, in examination. "That is quite disturbing. You have no idea whatsoever of what causes these manifestations to accumulate? Common happenings in your day? Something that disrupts your routine and contentment? It could be even a minor detail."

"I know this, Mother," Arya responded, shaking her head into the mirror. Eye contact was now being avoided, at all costs. Her emerald orbs might betray more than her mouth already had. "And I have already considered every angle of which you just spoke. I can identify no factor that may attribute these things that I see. My days are calm and serene. Rarely does anything unexpected disturb them, and it is never so traumatizing as to trigger these dreams. These nightmares."

"And you awaken horrified from these images?"

"Not exactly." Islanzadi raised an eyebrow. "There is more."

"Evidently," the queen replied.

Arya stumbled over herself for several moments. "It is even more difficult to explain than the dreams themselves. I am not positive I can accurately detail it enough so that you understand what happens."

"You can try."

"It is difficult." Arya sighed. "Something comes in the night and the fear is gone. The images are gone. All that remains is the darkness they lent and then the safety that I feel with the presence of whatever chases them away. I have never before experienced it."

Silence ensued for several moments, while Arya tried to memorize every scale she could see in the dim light of the dark evening and Islanzadi carefully pondered over her daughter's words. Slightly surprised and nervous that she had so abruptly revealed so much of herself, even to her mother, Arya prepared to guard herself against any insinuation of incapability or irrationality that the queen might say.

To her surprise, her mother's response was as brief and unexpected as Arya had ever known. "Perhaps you simply dream so that your pain does not become reality."

"I do not understand."

"Neither do I, but I hope that what I am trying to say is that the images display all of the violence and pain you have before experienced and fear to occur yet again. Perhaps your mind simply wants you to cleanse yourself of it before it can become reality before your eyes."

"Yet the reality is," Arya replied, "that it is beyond my control whether or not the pain I see can yet be prevented in the future."

"I do not pretend to be correct, Arya," Islanzadi said. "I am merely offering a guess as to why what has occurred inside of your mind as you sleep has occurred."

"And the familiarity that chases away the images? How would you insert that?"

"I do not know," Islanzaid said honestly. She paused briefly, and Arya lifted her eyes to stare at her mother. "Maybe you believe subconsciously that the road to salvation and safety and painless life is led by something you have before experienced, something that has occurred before that you truly believe will occur again. Or perhaps not. It is only my hypothesis, and I hold great fear it is in falsehood."

Arya considered her mother's words for precious moments before waving her head away. "It does not matter, anyway. I function as normally as ever, no matter how I sleep at the night or what dreams I have."

Islanzadi watched her daughter for several long moments, and Arya serioiiusly believed the queen was about to prevent the matter from dropping. Weighing her weight in Arya's life, however, her mother nodded concession after a long pause. "We have discussed the changes your partner-of-mind bring into this world. For the both of us."

Arya glanced down at the dozing green dragon and smiled. "It changes little."

"It changes a great deal," Islanzadi disagreed.

"Once he is large enough to train, I will no longer be in position to represent the elves to the Varden," Arya replied. "That is the only thing that need change in my life because of him."

"It is not, but you believe so," Islanzadi said. A moment later, she sighed. "I had hoped you would have chosen to remain my emissary. It seems to be the only way I can continue to speak with you without having politics and war end up in the middle."

"I contacted you without prompt tonight, did I not?"

A corner of the queen's mouth upturned. "Yes. But the circumstance was less than normal. I understand, in any case, only I had hoped differently."

"It would be inappropriate for me to continue to represent the elves while my first and foremost responsibility would be to the Riders. The need be the only restriction I place upon myself. My status as an elf will not change, nor shall the way I coexist within the world."

It appeared as though Islanzadi had a retort ready for response, but, to Arya's slight surprise, the queen made a visible effort of biting her tongue and holding back her words. Through the connection of magic, her mother's eyes slid unto the dragon. Even as she observed him, a lazy eye slid open, quickly followed by the other as the gaze observed the two elves in tandem.

"He is truly magnificent," Islanzadi said. "I would appreciate you telling him so, and extending my greetings as queen."

"He already knows you," Arya replied. "Or he shall, by the time the two of you meet. As I know you, so shall he. There are no secrets between us as I can control it, as I understand the link to extend. Everything that is mine shall be his."

Islanzadi's quirk of the mouth turned into a fully-fledged grin. "Truly remarkably, the fantastic connection that exists between rider and dragon. I can only imagine how wondrous Eragon and Saphira are, watching you and he as if watching their own link develop all over again. If that is how they experienced it, of course."

"Fortunes are high, it would seem, for us all."

"So it would seem," Islanzadi said. Over the course of the next moment, however, there came a change over the queen's face as she observed Arya through the link. "But not so would it appear. How fare they, Eragon and Bjartskular?"

"They fare as well as us all," Arya replied quickly. "It is a time of victory for the Varden."

"Indeed," Islanzadi replied. "Yet there have been more defeats then you or I or Nasuada care to admit. Eragon was inches from death. Murtagh is dead, but I know the friendship he and Eragon shared, and scars have no-doubt been left behind, especially if the red rider's death occurred in the context you explained to me. I am curious—nay, apprehensive—as to how these events have weighed upon his shoulders… and your own."

It was at this point that Arya fully realized how deep their conversation had evolved, from her own personal difficulties to discussions relating to topics that rested in politics. She wondered whether or not her mother's mind had slipped from that of a concerned parent back to that of a calculating warrior. Furthermore, Arya was startlingly aware that should she reveal too much of her own thoughts on the matter Islanzadi brought up, she may give away more than she cared to share about how far her friendship with Eragon had itself evolved.

And, by revealing it to Islanzadi, she would first have no choice but to acknowledge it herself. So she crafted a skirting response.

"I endure. As does he. Anything further is irrelevant. For the moment, we are soldiers dealing with our corporeal weaknesses alone. As it should be."

Islanzadi sighed. "I await the day, my daughter, when you yet understand that sometimes it is not best to face your pains alone. I was quietly hoping you had come closer to this assumption when you contacted me tonight. Nevertheless, perhaps there is yet hope that you will reach out to someone to help you. You need not face everything alone."

Her words sent a cacophony of images swirling through Arya's mind, all of which were instantly replaced by the remembrance of the shadow's warmth as it chased away all the evils that tried to bury her at night. "Sometimes I feel as if I am not alone. As if sometimes, no matter where I am, there will always be ways for be to not be alone."

They paused for a several long moments, Arya's eyes on the dragon, her sensing Islanzadi's dancing around rapidly. Finally, Arya glanced up to see a misty smile gracing her mother's beautiful features. "I miss you, Arya."

Arya blinked, startled by the display of affection. For a moment, instinct nearly forced her to rush unto a different subject. In light of all her mother had just shared with her, however, Arya took another long moment to allow herself to calm before speaking. "And I you, Mother. I have taken much of your own sleep from you, and it is time I return what I can. Thank you… for… listening."

The last few stumbled words prompted Islanzadi's smile to widen. "It is my wish that your dreams become peaceful again, child. I am gratified that you chose to contact me; I want you to know that I have not felt this close to you in many a year, and the happiness you've brought me in these dark hours, where only scraps of light appear in the night of our plight."

Lost for alternative words, Arya simply nodded her acceptance. "Atra du evarínya ono varda, Islanzadi Dröttning."

"Un ono, Arya Dröttningu," Islanzadi replied gently, and Arya warmed to the affection in her voice. "Be safe, my daughter. And watch over Eragon for us all."

In a swirl of color akin to the first image that appeared across the surface of the water, Islanzadi disappeared. The light the connection had shed across the room disappeared as the liquid became motionless and boring once more. Arya's eyes rose from its surface to observe the shadows dancing around the tent, and quietly pondered her mother's words as the setting returned to normal, the dragon rolling over gently by her side.

While she was skeptical anything that had been said was correct, the fact that she could find comfort in someone or something that wasn't a conjured fabrication of her mind gave her great relief. She felt somewhat sheepish for confessing so many secrets of her being, but she felt surprisingly more comfortable with the imagining of falling to sleep, only to be tormented by unseen demons and saved by an unknown force. For a reason she couldn't identify, she did not share her mother's belief that the shadow of protection came from within.

It was too… foreign and familiar to her being to have come from somewhere so close. Putting a name or image to what it represented, however, was causing her more difficulty. She had only her emotions to work by, in their sleep, and they lent nothing to her by way of clues in the waking light.

As she rested a hand atop her dragon, however, and the withheld memories of it standing guard over her whenever she awoke, she could almost feel that she understood. For a specially brief moment, in the dark of her room, Arya felt as if she was on the very brink of remembering the familiarity, the comfort, the wonder, the glorious safety… And then, just as before, it disappeared in a twist of obscured memory.

So, as she laid herself back upon her bed and felt the dreams take her once more, she was nearly as completely confused by the feelings as she had been before. As the shadow took roots and repelled the demons, however, and she physically, distantly felt the dragon to guard her against unseen attackers, she realized suddenly that the embrace of the shadow was a place where she had been before.

* * *

><p>"He is not so graceful in the skies as Saphira," Arya commented to Eragon as they stood atop a snow-crested hilltop beyond Belatona's walls. A half-mile away, Saphira was attempting to convey to her dragon techniques that would enhance its clumsy flying to the state worthy of a dragon. With her dragon's limited speech capabilities, however, this was proving to be a most difficult task.<p>

Eragon chuckled. "Agility is lost with the substitution of bulk. He will grow larger and quicker than Saphira has; that much can be seen by his body form already." The green dragon was, true to the blue rider's words, laced with heavy muscle from his neck to his hind legs, a trait of strength that he used from the sacrifice of his speed. As a result, she believed his speed would suffer, though he would be stronger than his blue master.

As they watched, her dragon evidently made a mistake in Saphira's instruction and tipped its wing so drastically wrong it nearly plummeted to the white ground below. At the last second, as Arya exhaled heavily in concern, its flight straightened out, to the indignant roar of Saphira. "It is easy enough to teach technique and strategy, but to coerce dexterity from a body is much more difficult."

"He'll be fine, Arya," Eragon replied. She noticed him grinning specifically at her words from the corner of his eye. "He will adapt as he can, especially as he better understands the speech he is being told. I have every confidence in him, and you, as his rider."

She crossed her arms over her chest, as much for warmth as to show her unrest. The wind bit into her skin, heavily clad in leather and coat as she was. Eragon, beside her and garbed in heavy layers of fabric, appeared in no less discomfort than she. "He has much to learn and precious little time to learn it. I, likewise, will be pressed."

Eragon shrugged. "There is little in this world I could instruct you upon that you do not already know or are aware of alternative coping methods."

"In him," Arya replied, making a subtle gesture of the head towards where her dragon continued to stumble yet right himself in the sky, "there is much that I do not understand. Much I have to learn."

Eragon blinked. The sunlight glancing off the snow may have been the culprit of the gesture, but Arya was convinced otherwise. "Those matters are things that are impossible to explain to another. I can no more teach them than Saphira could instill upon me having wings on my back. Unless we shared a link of the mind from the very beginning, when she hatched for me, I doubt I could teach you to understand without you experiencing it for yourself."

Not for the first time, Arya watched him scratch at his face from the corner of her eye and considered whether or not she was less confused by his own words than he had been. More or less, she had understood his meaning, but the concept that things she had never before comprehended as feasible would be revealed to her left her reeling of the mind for several moments. "In which case, I can only wait until he is large enough for us to learn."

Eragon's smile had disappeared by her side. She wondered what his thoughts encompassed, but as their recent distance insisted and she refused to break, separation was the only thing she acknowledged. She dared not touch his mind, for her fear that she would be reluctant to withdraw. "I have put a great deal of thought in then, as it happens. So has Saphira. We're not convinced he will be safe when he grows large enough to defend himself."

Arya turned straight to face him, regarding him with stern negativity. "If he cannot defend himself then, when shall he have the ability? He is a dragon, and his capabilities will only be rivaled by those of his own kin." In her mind, she subconsciously buried herself in the distant connection of her green partner-of-mind, relishing the feeling his presence brought to her.

"Not if Galbatorix throws a restrained spell at him so powerful it knocks at all the wards you and I have placed around him and kills us all," Eragon replied. His voice was so quiet, so reserved, that she was barely certain he had spoken.

Her face regarded his with impassiveness, their emotional barriers at peak performance. "Even the dark king has not that capability, while we still draw on the strength of our reserves and our fellows."

His eyes darkened, though what the source of such a gesture was, she couldn't say. "I would rather not take the risk, Arya. That's why I think our training—_your_ training, his—should occur somewhere else. Somewhere that's not here."

"What does 'here' entitle?"

Eragon raised his head, and with deliberate effort nodded in every general direction except for Belatona. "Away from the Varden. The less attention and familiarity we attract, the better. You can sense as well as I the nearly hundred people staring out at the two of them over there from atop the city walls. Their wonder is enough to scare me into thinking that maybe there are some among us who aren't that keen on seeing us to victory."

Arya opened her mouth to rebuke him again, but stopped herself short when she acknowledged that his concern was not made in attempt to be correct but in fear for the safety of her dragon. At the last moment, she allowed her mind to confirm what he had spoken about the onlookers, and hesitated before covering her pause with a genuine question. "If not here, where is there to go? Nasuada will not allow you to leave her side, even in such a time as this, when the Varden is entrenched so far within labeled Empire borders."

A cloudy vision descended upon his gaze, and he withdrew a step. The snow crunched beneath his feet as he turned back towards the spectacle of the dragons. "There are always places to go, but you're right about Nasuada. That's the case in which I fear the risk will be greatest. If I convey enough of what you and I believe to be danger, though, maybe she'll see the light and let us do what we believe is best."

A stir inside of Arya made her flinch and fidget, a gesture she only barely managed to conceal, and only through a century of practiced instinct. A flash of the feast and dance crossed her mind. The tone of her voice, superfluously hard and barely covering deeper emotion, surprised her. "Under the situation, she most likely believes the best place for you is by her side. I doubt she would sooner allow you from her sight."

"I know," Eragon replied. The two dragons landed a substantial distance from their riders and curled into balls, sinking into the snow and, in Saphira's case, rapidly huffing smoke from their nostrils. "And that is why it's beyond imperative that we make her realize the gravity of the situation."

"You believe that she will listen to us?"

"She was grown warmer towards me since our disagreement," Eragon said, his eyes traveling away from hers, avoiding hers. "It seems she would desire to keep the hostilities between her riders to a mini—"

"We are not _her_ riders," Arya snapped, again just barely managing to keep her voice at a tone level she deemed acceptable for their conversation. "And no matter how forceful you could be, if she believes it will go against the wellbeing of the Varden or throw an unnecessary political advantage to anyone who is not the Varden she will veto your suggestions and overthrow your objections."

Appearing slightly rebuked, though clearly trying to hide the discomfort, Eragon took a deep breath and swallowed once. "In that case, I shall have to be persuasive enough to make her see it is the best case for the situation for all parties. Including herself and the Varden. Above all, for him."

He nodded out towards the fields of snow, and Arya stared towards her green dragon, who was lost in selective memories Saphira had chosen to share of days on the wind. So captivated and yearning was he for the adventures above the clouds that he didn't notice how affectionately she had caressed his mind. Virtually sneaking into the memories with him, it was obvious why the idea attracted him so, for even she had to admit that the spectacles and sensations evoked by the images Saphira presented were nearly over-powering in their full force of view.

She withdrew slowly, savoring the connection as she did each time she shared it. "For his sake alone, Eragon, you cannot afford to fail."

It was potentially an unfair statement, as she knew that Eragon would do everything in his power and some that wasn't quite appropriate to make sure her dragon was safe, but he appeared not uncomfortable by her speaking it aloud and she did not retract it. "The time for such preparations, however," he said after a pause that lasted moments, "is growing smaller as each second passes."

"You intend to attempt it soon, then?"

Eragon nodded towards the dragons once more, crossing his arms across his chest as if to mirror her own actions. "Time is precious, and we are already losing it every time the weather worsens. As soon as he is large enough to support your weight in flight, I would like to take our leave to commence with your training."

Arya kept her face as impassive as possible. "In that case, I believe our efforts of persuasion will have to begin quite soon indeed."

Quiet descended upon them, which developed into a silence that stretched over minutes, the two of them standing side-by-side, watching their dragons interact from thousands of feet away. Eragon fidgeted at one point. "I'm yet surprised he has not chosen a name from all of those you have supplied."

"That is because, I'm sure, he is waiting for the right one."

She noticed him glance briefly at her from the corner of his eye, but said no more.

* * *

><p>That night, as she laid herself down to sleep, instead of joining her side as usual her dragon crawled over her chest and lay atop her, making himself comfortable without hurting her in any form with any of his body extremities. The action surprised her, but, despite the increased weight pushing down against her, the proximity comforted her and she actually found it easier to slip into her sleep, prepared for the aching nightmares that would inevitably find her there.<p>

Yet… they did not.

For the first time in her experience, as soon as she felt herself slip beyond the real world and into that of dreams, the shadow was there for the first moment, wrapping her away in a protective embrace and invisibly warding away evil. Its everlasting embrace sent such radiant joy throughout her that it very nearly overpowered her emotional defenses and gave loose to raw feeling. The sensations were so welcome and content after so long in mortal pain and discomfort that she let them overtake her, relishing in their feel, knowing that they would most likely disappear before she could retain them.

In essence, however, she began to notice that the feelings were bittersweet. The joy of grip was plagued with the memory of loss and agony, and the comfort was coated in the fear of reoccurrence. It was as if the source of all that made her happy also gave her reason to fear, or doubt, or mourn, and that she could not expect the warmth while not acknowledging the ending—the cold.

With each moment that passed, the warmth and cold seemed to balance themselves, although the equality became more prominent, eclipsing the positive side, with every second that went by. The disparaging hesitation that she felt almost made her wish for the images that usually haunted her, screaming and tearing apart the sanity that she so dearly held to.

Finally, in the night, it was as if acceptance descended, and though she knew nothing of what she was experiencing she finally understood. The pain of loss and the agony of her sorrow disappeared, and the shadow seemed to acquiesce completely with her desires. She understood; she identified the familiarity, she gripped the loss, she held onto the joy, she clung to the memory, she allowed the pain to escape, she remembered the comfort, and, as the shadow seemed to leave her mind—an imprint of its happiness that only sign that it had ever been present—she let go of her fear.

Her eyes drifted open in the night. Her breath was staggered but controlled, and she felt as if she had just been through a battle without blood. Sweat coated her arms and forehead, and from where she lied flat on her back it seemed as if the ceiling was swirling for a moment before her mind regained its sense of balance. Several deep gulps of air later, she remembered what had occurred in her sleep, and allowed her eyes to travel downward, to the creature huddled over her slim and fatigued form.

He stood over her on all four legs, gripping the sheets torn by his claws without strain. The eyes that stared back at her had never been so serene, so comprehending before, and the comfort that exploded through her body upon beholding the simple sight below her nearly left her gasping for additional breath.

Carefully, she reached out a hand to caress her dragon's face with her fingertips. He did not move as she did, but watched her with every intensity as she whispered, barely even audible through their minds.

_Faölin_.

The dragon lowered his snout, touching her stomach just above the naval and straightening to face her once again. The warmth from the contact chased away the late night chill. _Faölin_, he repeated contentedly, allowing the joy she felt in both of them sweep into his eyes.

Arya didn't even try to restrain herself at the smile that bloomed across her face. Faölin laid back down beside her, and together the two partners-of-mind returned fearlessly to the land of dreams.


	25. 24: Blood of Brothers

**If this chapter is not up to the standards of the rest of this story, I understand and simply apologize. My inspiration has been somewhat lacking, and I apologize for that, as well.**

**Thanks to reviewers: finaldragonquest, Wolfyman123, RestrainedFreedom, Unique Fantasiser, Halcyon5, xxx (x3), TheCrimson11, warrior of worlds, SlayerX86, Hyperspacewizard, Gman022, SimplySupreme, paolinifansimon (x17), TooLazyToThinkOfAGoodName, BokitoProof, Rise Against713, Dagibsta, Thejasalex, Aestafication, Elvendiath, Alyra90, ShadowWolf15, Riptide, waggishremarks, and README.**

**It took a long time to thank everybody.**

**Disclaimer: Disclaiming from TWO parties, this time.**

**24**

**Blood of Brothers**

Three blankets were simply not enough to keep his wife warm. Roran made this decision with sharp verdict as Katrina still managed to shiver despite being tucked away comfortably beneath them. Left with nothing but his own unused clothes to cover her up with, he was hastily running out of solutions that didn't involve causing discomfort to his fellows that kept the one he loved most in the world safe from winter's bite.

Despite the fact that she had not woken from her chills, the fact that her night was spent in discomfort made Roran stand and begin to pace their small, shared quarters. The action was as much to keep _himself_ warm as it was to stymie his concerned mind, as he had already sacrificed his personal blanket as well as their shared comforter to give his wife every benefit. At this point, he imagined his body temperature was so low that it wouldn't even have been worth it for him to lend body heat by rejoining her in bed.

Roran Stronghammer, by his own definition, was a tough man. He did not complain about life's hardships, but embraced them. He did not run away from the sweat of the sun or the bowing of the wind, but learned to endure them. Physically—and emotionally—he considered few a man who could stand up to him in a test of wills or strength, or even cunning.

But right now, all surface appearances aside, Roran Stronghammer was worried.

His wife was approximately four or five months pregnant, a vulnerable stage. Then again, there wasn't really a stage, in Roran's opinion, that wasn't vulnerable. The increased worry that smeared his mind in recent days was the ferocity of the winter he felt on the wind with every gust, every tendril of air rushing past his ears and eyes. In Carvahall, much farther north than Belatona, he had been no stranger to his share of difficult winters. To the best of his estimations, the storms and snows that had already hit were formidable for any time of the season, and they were yet early. He feared the possibility of even stronger chains striking the Varden's stronghold in the middle of winter's icy grip on their army.

More than the Varden, however, Roran held a great, reserved anxiety regarding Katrina and their unborn child. She was shivering under _three_ blankets, and, after Roran crossed over to his measly garment hooks and threw his overcoat over her to boot, there was little else her husband could do to warm her.

He began to pace the room as he failed to force his anxieties away, rubbing his eyes as he did so. His exhaustion was manageable, heavy as it was; he had all of winter to recover, and with limited duties at the moment his primary concern was his family. And food for his family. And warmth for his family. Every category he examined seemed to have factors that were under any category that was not in his favor. As eccentric and numerous as his difficulties were, the solutions were relatively simple. Reaching those solutions, on another hand, was a matter of controversy… and controversy was the last thing Roran was intent on causing at the moment.

The first possible thing he could do was ask Nasuada, under the condition of Katrina's pregnancy, to spare an extra portion of ration for her. Alternatively, he could request additional blankets, although he was aware that the largest problem affecting the Varden at the moment was lack of proper shelter and materials for comfort. Either way, he knew, although simple, it was a grave weight to ask the leader of the Varden for her people's sacrifice in order to warm a single woman, albeit pregnant and the wife of an officer. Considering his prior standing with Nasuada, regardless of field record, he wasn't entranced by the idea.

The second thing he could try was appealing to Eragon, but Roran did not know exactly what his cousin could do to help. As much sway as Eragon held as the Varden's Rider and Nasuada's vassal, Roran had doubts that he would be willing to request food and warmth from the armies he fought for only for Katrina, sympathetic as he may be. If he had any of his own food to spare, Roran knew Eragon would selflessly give it. Even if he had none extra and still felt Katrina needed it more, Roran believed it would be passed over without hesitation.

As it was, he was not partial to either option, and the sacrifice he asked of others in either situation in order to satisfy his wife's needs and his own needs triggered guilt, as it should. He knew he should feel extremely lucky that the pregnancy had gone without incident as of yet, but all that was inside of his mind was anxiety and fear. Were he any simpler of a man, the erratic sleeping patterns that now tore apart his nights, coupled with the wild emotions roiling through his head, would have driven him into a useless pit of exhaustion.

Finally, when he imagined that his pacing would wake his wife, the last thing he wanted, Roran snapped his mind in half and retrieved a lighter jacket than he had thrown over Katrina. Wrapping it around his shoulders, he soundlessly left the room, descending the short stairs to street level and leaving the protection of the complex.

Belatona was ghostly at night; the snow did no depreciation to that image. Virtually none of the regular citizens, as previous nighttime strolls had informed him, left their homes after the sun set early in the evening. Despite the fact that it was not forbidden to be out at any time of the night, the more Roran saw, the more he believed that while the people of the city gave them not the slightest hint of resistance or hatred they were not pleased with their presence. The Varden had been given directive to stay out of the bystander way as much as possible, but Roran knew how difficult it was to live normally, even in your own home, with militarized force in close proximity.

He walked alone on the streets tonight. The winds of the day had abated, leaving the air cold but not unduly uncomfortable. Light snow cover on the street rocks crunched quietly beneath his steps as they took him into the city. The occasional sentry patrolling the streets passed by and nodded in his direction. Unluckily for him, his thoughts were his own alone, despite every attempt for him to divert his mind with his footsteps.

There was mixture of cloud cover and clear sky, and Roran watched the stars where he could see them. The lit streetlamps made it more difficult to behold them, but he appreciated what he saw. It reminded him slightly of his life on the farm, before… everything. Everything that made him the man he was now. The problem with that, as he stared up at the stars of the night, it was that stars of Belatona were quite different than the stars of Carvahall; just as the man of Belatona was a complete stranger to the farmer boy of the fields in Palancar Valley.

Roran walked for a long time, what must have been hours where the night air was his only company. The thoughts he tried to escape kept battering themselves against his conjured wall in extraneous efforts to occupy his mind. Eventually, he simply stopped walking. He raised his hands to his head and clamped them over his temples, forcing himself to relax. With a great amount of effort, slowly, one thought slipped from his mind and then another, and equally slowly he felt the clearness of silence become one with his head.

Call it perception worthy of the elves, but Roran liked to think he detected the presence before its voice spoke.

"It's much warmer if you meditate inside."

Roran opened his eyes and lowered his arms, beholding the witch Angela skirt out of the shadows of a nearby overhang as she smiled at him widely. He had met the herbalist, as she was known, of course, but had never before had reason nor interest in striking up a private conversation with her. Magic was yet a concept he struggled to grasp, and that which was contained not even in words scared him to the edge of his understanding.

He turned to face her, and he couldn't help the suspicion that jumped to the forefront of his spectrum. It was only natural for him, after all he'd been through, to warily regard anyone who approached him in dark streets at night. Trying not to sound rude while maintaining his passive face, Roran replied, "That's true enough. If I were meditating, I'd probably be indoors."

Angela's smile only grew. She wore a dark brown cloak, and for the first time he had ever seen her, her hands were empty of basket or devices. "Oh," she said simply, and nodded as if she knew something he didn't. "Even for one so renowned as yourself, Stronghammer, and in a city as safe as this, it is not always wise to dally outside in the night."

"I'll take my chances." He couldn't keep the harshness out of his voice.

He was surprised when the witch simply nodded. "I had hoped you would say that. A leader who cares for his own wellbeing is a fool. A leader who cares only for his peoples' wellbeing is also a fool. I have not classified you yet, but at least you're not so concerned about statistics when you consider your tactical orders."

Roran felt uneasy, but he restrained himself from demanding how she was so intimate with his battle tactics. "Is this a chance encounter? It feels to me as if I've walked into a trap."

Angela dipped her head from side-to-side, appearing in the middle between answers. "Yes… and no… Encounters are never really _chance_. Some are improbable, and others unfortunate, but there are specific factors that outline two things coming together."

"And ours is no different."

He swore her teeth caught and reflected the distant, miniscule light of stars. "That is correct."

"Care to enlighten me?"

"All in time, Stronghammer, all in time. Shall we walk?"

"Aye, but in separate directions," Roran said quickly. He hoped his insinuation that they put a great deal of distance between them was understood as literally as it was spoken. The factor of his current discomfort was so sizable that he was ready to turn and move away should this strange witch speak anything else he wasn't prepared to counter.

Angela made a clicking sound with her tongue and front teeth. "That won't do you well. I assure you, it is much greater to have me as your friend rather than your foe. Or even your acquaintance. A little walk with a stranger half your size will do you no harm."

Roran hesitated. Although he barely knew her, he knew from what men said that she was a mysteriously dangerous person who held many more years than her appearance indicated. From what he gleaned, he strongly believed her size had little at all to do with what and how much harm she could cause him. "Is it not a conversation we can have standing here?"

"The mind works better whilst in motion," Angela replied. "And it is not necessarily a conversation I have planned ahead of time. Perhaps it is merely banter from one warrior to another."

Roran's eyes narrowed slightly in the dark, but he doubted she noticed. Slowly, he allowed his feet to carry him forward, and, without altering the smile on her face, Angela quietly joined him. He observed her from the corners of his eye, keeping a substantial distance between them. Their exchange had given him absolutely no glimpse of whatever kind of person she was. He had no desire to speak, nor observe; it was unlike him to have such blatant fear of the unknown as he realized he was experiencing. It was unjust… the other men regarded with mystery, but never with fear.

"I trust," Angela said, startling him from his private thoughts, "that your strolls at this hour have something other to do than simply a lack of rest."

Roran blinked. "My journeys have everything to do with the fact that I can't sleep."

"You are journeying because your thoughts necessitated you to be awake," Angela replied. He observed her turn to glance at him for a moment before slowly returning her gaze forward. "That doesn't mean those journeys are the reason you are awake."

He planted his eyes on a slot of tile in the road, hidden slightly beneath the snow, and refused to look anywhere else. For lack of anything to respond with, he decided not to respond at all. He felt her staring at him again but made every effort not to give her the satisfaction of even a peripheral glance in return. If the conversation was to continue, which he had no doubt she would make it, he was going to force her to instigate its continuation.

For many minutes, that stretched into dozens of moments, they walked without words. Roran became quickly uncomfortable, yet Angela appeared undeterred by whatever silence had lapsed. He knew better than to try and sneak away or lose her, and excusing himself would require words, which he yet refused to emit. As he soon realized, however, that the witch's smile was a clear indication of her intention to prolong their silent contest until her victory, the time stretched so long he feared the morning would come before his disconcerting companion would leave him. Worse, before Katrina woke up in the night to find him… not there.

Begrudgingly, when his patience wore thin, Roran sighed. "Must you continue to follow me?"

"Who's following who? We are walking beside one another," Angela replied quickly, as if the sudden words were no surprise or victory to her.

"Why do you follow me tonight, Angela?" Roran growled, his teeth clenching in his frustration. "We have never exchanged words before. Why do you walk beside me as if devoted to hounding me for some methodical reason? Answer me!"

Angela stopped walking. Plain and simple.

Quickly, Roran was a step beyond her, but he swiveled the instant his reactions allowed him to, loathe to turn his back for even a second to the witch. Her image, now stationary, was slightly _off_ from whatever it had been before, but for what reason Roran was not positive he could state. Her smile was gone and her eyes contained a glare of ferocious intent that had not been present before. For the first time, Roran detected her breath on the air, columns of fog drifting away into the night in twin jets from her nostrils.

She sighed multiple times before speaking. "You are much as I expected you to be, Roran Garrowsson of Carvahall, he who they call Stronghammer and who fathered a child from wedlock."

Roran's eyes widened. Eragon hadn't told her… he couldn't have; it would be a betrayal between brothers, a betrayal of secrets worse than the heaviest of blood feuds. As if she could read his thoughts, Angela's words flowed on relentlessly. "I need not lies nor eyes to detect your secrets, and very rarely have I so clearly spoken to one as I speak to you now. You are a great man, and great men are destined to play a role in history they never envisioned when they were young. I have traveled longer and farther than you would care to believe even in your exaggerations, and few alive today have seen so much as I. Know when I speak that my words should be heeded, for not even to your brother have I before revealed so much of myself. And never again shall I so easily."

Roran stumbled over himself for a moment. At first, he tried to formulate a challenge, as was his nature and instinct, but something in her eyes and his own heart assured him that all she spoke was true. Instead, he said, "Why do you say this to _me_?"

"Because it is to you I am speaking, and I advise you to speak it again to no one else," Angela replied.

"Speak to Eragon," Roran mumbled, taking a step back. He had a hard time digesting the fact that a woman a head than he was reducing him to a stammering heap of helplessness. "He's the one with a fate. I'm just here to fight for my people."

"And _that_ is what makes your fate for you, Stronghammer," Angela replied. "You must hear this now because Eragon must hear different things. You must hear this now because it its _yours_ to hear, not his."

Roran considered many options within the next moment, many of them which resulted in him turning around and walking away from the witch, refusing to hear her mischief and teachery. Instead, he merely swallowed. "I guess I'm listening."

"Not much to hear anymore, actually." Before his eyes, the ferocity of the witch transformed. The smile returned, her eyes became giddy once more. "I'll say this, though. Eragon's fate is sealed in stone. He has no way to change it, no matter which path he chooses or the choices he makes. Nor can any person in existence tell him what that fate is, for the secrets that cover it up are shielded by magic that has existed since before magic has existed.

"_Your_ fate, Roran Stronghammer, is not set in stone. There will be a choice in your life that will change every other life in Alagaësia, whether you welcome it or not, and you will not be able to walk away from it and shelve the responsibility to another. It is yours alone—this I have seen—and it is best you be prepared for it when it arrives."

Roran could feel his heart hammering in his chest, threatening to break ribs. He struggled to take in breaths of air, blinking to keep his eyes from rotting in the power emanating from the witch's words. He didn't even have any doubt of her words; even if he had, he wouldn't have voiced it. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because sometimes even leaders need leaders, Roran. Remember that sometime. While everyone around you cannot control where they will meet their end, _you _have a choice. And no one, not a citizen of this world, not a bystander of the next, will question whatever you choose, however you choose it."

He watched as her eyes flitted over his shoulder briefly. Before he could say something more, she smiled wide and nodded to him, and immediately began to shrink back, descending quickly into the shadows of an alley. Quickly, Roran glanced back over his own shoulder, and was only half-surprised at what he beheld.

Eragon stood, huddled and simultaneously enshrouded in a traveler's cloak, in the center of the street at an intersection a short distance away, his face blank and his eyes patient, facing Roran as if he were clearly waiting for something to occur. Roran snapped back to Angela. "How do I get a choice? Why do I get a choice?"

Angela's only clue in the darkness was to smile as she disappeared. Seemingly not even an answer, her last words carried heavily from the shadows. "Sometimes the greatest leaders… are not leaders at all."

She was gone. Roran shivered heavily in the cold, unsure why it so suddenly affected his system. As if being hit in the face with a bucket of the most freezing water, he felt a wave of calmness and dread sink over him from head to toe as the words the herbalist had cast over him finally sunk into his system. He knew his cousin was approaching, though with no urgency nor apparent interest. Knowing Eragon, however, Roran would find some way to undermine his inner undoing and share everything he had heard, despite all his own sudden attention to keeping his thoughts private.

Eragon arrived at his side, didn't make a move or speak a word. Simultaneously, they turned their faces towards one another. Roran very slowly raised one shoulder and lowered it, and Eragon smiled slightly. They both turned their eyes back to where Angela had disappeared, and finally Eragon pivoted and faced away, speaking the words to break their mildly uncomfortable silence in the meantime. "I don't suppose you have any idea what just happened?"

"Am I supposed to?"

"If she spoke to you, I would definitely try," Eragon replied. "In my experience, there hasn't been a word wasted she's said to me. Whatever she told you, make sure you know what _you_ think it means. And don't tell anyone else."

Roran was mildly surprised. Even of Eragon, one of the few he trusted without restraint, he himself wasn't sure he would accept if his cousin were not telling him the entire truth had their positions been reversed. As it was, he merely let the matter slip past his mind for contemplation another time. It may not have been Eragon that was the variable in the situation, after all; it may have been the witch. "She knows Katrina's pregnant."

Eragon raised one eyebrow but quickly lowered it. "Unsurprising. She seems to know everything that is worth knowing, no matter who wants it to be concealed or how secret it actually is."

"Who is she?"

Eragon shook his head and shrugged, perhaps the most confused Roran had ever seen him since his transformation from human to… more than human. "Whoever she is, she's just as keen at knowing things as she is at concealing her own self. To all whom it may concern, she's Angela the herbalist."

Roran wrapped his broad arms around his bulky frame, surveying Eragon as the rider took too steps to where the witch had been standing before turning back around. "And not even Nasuada knows? Funny amount of trust to put into someone who seems to hold a great deal of gravity within the affairs that occur in closed tents."

Eragon shrugged once more. "She has never before acted hostilely or uncertainly. She has given me no reason not to trust her. On the contrary, she has saved my life a decent many times. I hold her in esteem. Until I have the privilege to know more, her identity is of no concern to me."

Roran distinctly wondered whether or not Eragon would see Angela in the safe light if _his_ darkest secret had been laid bare before. "I guess I'll have to take your word for security in this instance."

Eragon's eyes turned unto his cousin's. Roran stared back, trying to show confidence and strength in a meeting of brothers. "How is Katrina?"

Roran hesitated, and then cursed himself for hesitating. By the simple act, Eragon drew himself back and his eyes became clouded, as if they could see through Roran like a transparent wall. Roran hastily made sure his mind was protected, containing his precious thoughts even from one so trusted as his cousin, yet no force attempted to breach his defenses and access his mind. Eragon's eyes narrowed, however; he knew exactly what was transpiring inside of Roran's mind. And his question hung heavy on the air.

Finally, there was an answer that would not allow silence to persist. "I don't know. She's not on the verge of dying, but she gets colder every night and I can't warm her. If the pregnancy turns out like Elain's, and the winter continues on the path it's begun, I fear her health might deteriorate. And take the baby with it."

There was a momentary quiet. Eragon became fixated with the ground, his eyes distant. "When is it due?"

"Gertrude tells me not until the spring season," Roran replied. Eragon's head swiveled towards him. "It's only her best guess, as the… time can't be pegged down exactly. But it sounds about right."

"Right as we attack Galabatorix," Eragon repeated, nodding his head. Roran looked away, knowing the demanding look that Eragon would be holding in his eyes. He staunchly ignored his cousin's seeking glare, knowing the reproach that would be there. "Your child is to be born at the time when the people you now serve are expecting you to be in the heart of battle for the future of the world."

"I didn't mean for it to be this way, Eragon," he said. "I don't even think I care. If I am to create life, at least I can do it while I'm still living. While I still have the chance to lead it back to where we once came from, a little farm where my father and his father toiled in the dirt so that I could exist."

He watched Eragon run foreign hands through elven hair, and heard a sigh emanate on a crystalline breath. "It does the child no good if you are dead, and it has no father to protect it in the world. If you die, Katrina will have no farm to take it back home to. If we _all_ die…" Roran silently thanked him for halting his words; the last thing he needed now was to imply their failure and the death of everyone he held dear.

They stood silently for a few moments. Eragon rubbed his eyes once more and then cast them into the sky, perhaps looking for Saphira on the freezing wind far above. After a moment the rider gestured for them to walk. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't… I know that you love them more than anything and that… their safety and happiness is your foremost concern."

"…while yours is pleasing Nasuada, the elves, _and _the dwarves whilst surviving, training the newest rider, and killing the king." He didn't mean for his words to find their way from his mouth with such venom. Belatedly, he threw on a grim smile to cover the distaste.

"Something like that," Eragon said. He clearly noticed Roran's displeasure in the conversation.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," the younger of the two said quickly.

"You seem on-edge."

"Who doesn't?"

Roran bristled, startled by the seeming negativity Eragon so seldom emitted. "From what I see, the Varden is in good shape. The men have just won two critical battles for two critical cities and have a foot at Galbatorix's throat. They're in good spirits, no less. It doesn't seem like anyone has ever been greater. You should be the happiest of us all."

Eragon grunted humorlessly. "That's not exactly how it works. I cannot be happy until Galbatorix is dead, no matter how many victories occur in between, no matter how many cities the Varden calls free. There is only one way to measure _my_ success, and mine is completely independent from the Varden's."

The night wind and air became audible around them as they lapsed into their own thoughts. Roran stirred and sighed, equal to Eragon's actions of minutes previous. "You and I always used to know what each other were thinking. I don't know what you're thinking right now, but I can tell you're not enthusiastic for other reasons than what is expected of you."

The air groaned as Eragon's sigh hissed across it. His arms were thrust so far beneath the folds of the other it appeared he was trying to make himself into nothing. "This may be difficult for you to understand, for you cannot read my thoughts as I could read yours, but there matters greater than physical prowess and territorial victory on my mind. Not all of them are so simply solved as have been the Varden's problems as of yet. Many of them are too complicated to ever find solution."

"Try me." At the indignant look he received, Roran did his prized best to appear innocent and shrugged. "A simple man for a complex problem. You never know."

His cousin chuckled, eyes snaking away, over the snowy rooftops and frozen homes to the sweeping breeze of the night. "You are anything but a simple man. If my problems were so easy to solve, I would ask the Varden as a whole, see how intelligent they really are."

He turned briefly, as if to check to see whether or not Roran found amusement in the statement. Roran kept his reaction to himself, eager to learn whatever he could about his cousin's troubles. "If you trusted me now as you once did, you would do well to share your problems with me. I'm your brother."

"It's not a matter of trust," Eragon said, shaking his head quickly.

"If it's not a matter of trust, it's either a matter of women or not a matter at all."

Eragon grinned. "It is not a matter of woman."

"Try me, cousin. Please."

In the darkness, Roran watched Eragon swallow and turn eyes to make contact. Both of their gazes were relatively shadowed in the weak streetlight, and Roran could glean nothing of the moods that passed around them from their locked stares. "Do you ever wonder what goes through Katrina's mind when she wakes up at night and you're not there?"

Roran froze, completely taken aback. A sting of pain he hadn't anticipated wormed its way into his chest, and he regarded Eragon with a masked volume of hostility. "Is this truly what troubles you, or is that a distraction meant to anger me into forgetting what I demand from you?"

"I didn't mean it to trouble you," Eragon replied. His voice was suddenly weak and his eyes had turned to stare at the ground. "_I_ merely wonder what she thinks. I also wonder what it's like to have someone wonder why you've left bed when there's no practical reason to."

"You're sure this isn't a woman matter?"

Eragon shook his head. "Sorry. I was distracted." He paused for several moments. "What was it that brought you out tonight?"

"I couldn't sleep," Roran said. "I was… worried about her." Before Eragon had a moment to comment or himself a moment to reconsider, Roran pressed forward. "I know it's not my place to ask of you, Eragon, but I implore, please, to help. I need blankets, wood for fire, anything to warm her. You could ask it of Nasuada, she would give it to you. I worry for her. My child is at risk. I don't know how to help them and I'm scared, Eragon. Above all, a burden is the last thing I would ever want to be to you, but I don't know who else I could turn to."

He ended his dialogue in a hurry, slightly fearful of his cousin's reaction. To his horror, Eragon had become quite still in the cold, his arms clasped and frozen as if his body had spontaneously shifted to ice. Roran prepared himself for the rebuke, and waited out the pause that would inevitably lead to his cousin's answer.

Eragon stared into the darkness of the night, Roran's eyes tracking his every flinch or miniscule gesture. There were none, of course, his motionless stance as pristine as that of an elf. Moments must have stretched into minutes, but there was no sense of strain or rush on the face of his cousin. Finally, when Roran began to wonder whether or not he had literally frozen in the night, Eragon let a pent-up breath hiss quietly from his lungs. "I will ask. I cannot guarantee she will answer."

The relief Roran felt couldn't possibly have fit into his expression. "Thank you. I pray it does not burden your relationship with her."

So sharply he nearly jumped away, Eragon's eyes snapped to his and narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Roran stumbled over his words several seconds before managing to answer. "I merely meant… I don't wish to hinder whatever passes between vassal and lady, of course. If it is too much for you to ask, then please don't."

There was a silence for several moments, and both of their gazes wandered away from each other. Roran was at a distinct loss for words, unsure why one moment his cousin would offer support and become hostile the next. Eragon, meanwhile, seemed perfectly content to stew in abrupt seething, suddenly untouched by the winter and its throes. Roran thought back to his previous words, and could seemingly locate no item that he believed would cause Eragon to act as he was.

Eragon shuffled suddenly, clearly less than comfortable. "Sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you."

"What's wrong?" Roran replied quickly. "There's something the matter, and stop trying to pretend like it's not there or I won't see it." Eragon didn't answer, staring off into the wind. "Have you tried speaking to Saphira about it?"

"It's as much her problem as mine."

"Arya?"

"Same situation."

"Maybe try me? Whatever it is, if it's not solved already you obviously haven't enlightened me to its nature." The jest went nowhere, although Roran hadn't really expected it to. Eragon stood as stoic as ever, and eventually Roran sighed heavily. "What in hellfire must I do before you speak to me as you once did?"

"Roran," he finally breathed, and nearly by the subtle inset of his voice, the glow of conciliation, Roran felt his cousin relinquish the resolve he'd constructed upon itself. He watched the rider bite his lip briefly, and then the words he desired came forth. "The hatchling—Arya's hatchling—is in grave danger. Galbatorix has lost his extreme advantage with Murtagh's death, alone, and now, while the Varden gains another rider, he may have lost the upper hand altogether. That is not something he is willing to allow. I imagine, even as we sit here now, he has his agents on the way to destroy Faölin."

"Faölin?"

"That's what she named him." His tone was quick, and Roran noted without comment how his lips had pursed.

"It's a beautiful name. Sounds very elf…"

"It is after someone who was very important to her." A shadow had come over his cousin's gaze, but it wasn't precisely dark. He was no master of identifying facial expressions, but he might have detected a hint of dry, guilty resentment in Eragon's voice. "Someone she held close to her heart." The rider hesitated a moment, as if dwelling in thoughts, and then shook his head and continued. "Nasuada has refused repeated requests from both Arya and myself to take the hatchling away from the Varden, away from where it could be in imminent danger… any moment, dark magic could be at work to steal its life. And not only would it be a tragedy for the war should we lose the advantage… it would a crime on life to be robbed of another dragon."

His eyes had grown dark. Roran shuffled on his fight, sensing the weight of the uneasiness Eragon had been hiding. "Why does she refuse?"

"She is enwrapped in her politics… she sees keeping the dragon with the Varden as a tool to inspire their continued allegiance to _her_. She thinks it helps the men to see her, and that the winter will shield Faölin from any threat of the Empire."

"And you believe—"

"She is damned wrong," Eragon cursed. Venom filtered its way through his tone. "Snow will no more defend us from the dark king than a feather would serve as armor. There is only way to protect the advantage now… by _protecting _it. By taking the hatchling where none may do it harm, and training it where none can learn its ways but its rider and itself."

There was no denying the immediate sympathetic thoughts Roran immediately seized for both sides of the argument. On one hand, he could understand Nasuada's concerns about being unaware of the dragon's location herself, in addition to being worried about the Varden, all of her own personal political objectives non-withstanding. Alternatively, he sensed immediately how strongly Eragon felt about the issue, and was inclined to agree with his cousin. "And there is no way to sway her?"

"If I ask for your conditions for Katrina," Eragon murmured, "it is all but hopeless."

Roran felt as if he had been speared in the chest by a dragon spike. "Eragon… I'm sorry. I didn't know you were in such a situation with Nasuada. You need not ask her for my own gains. The importance of your matter—"

"I put my matters over no one," his cousin replied, any trace of resentment now erased from his voice. "I would betray the teachings of my masters if I did."

"Yours is not only your own matter, but a matter of the free world, Eragon." Roran noticed his own voice rising, as was his emotional level. "You cannot refuse the safety of a dragon so you may ask for a few more _blankets_ to replace it!"

Eragon actually turned and faced his cousin. A strange grin appeared across his elven features. "If only there was a realistic way to accomplish mine. And if only there were a way to accomplish both."

"You can't just give up, Eragon," Roran exclaimed, his voice rising higher than intended. He quickly muffled it, hoping defiantly that none of the surrounding buildings were suddenly privy to their presence and conversation. He stepped closer to Eragon, and under his breath he murmured, "Have you considered ignoring Nasuada's word completely? Taking the dragon and going?"

The surprise he had expected from his cousin never came. Instead, the rider remained perfectly still, staring out into the cold. "I have contemplated it." Roran's eyebrows rose, but before he could get in another word, Eragon pressed forward. "And I fear that it is the course of action I must take. It will be against my allegiance to Nasuada, and will swear me as an enemy to her household. Inevitably, it may entirely rip my status amongst the Varden, which is something she cannot afford. If I were to take that course of action, she would be forced to announce that it was her decision, and do everything in her power to make amends. With neither Arya nor myself on their side, the Varden cannot hope to stand against Galbatorix."

Roran listened with rapt attention. His beard rustled as he smiled. "Sounds very… political."

Slowly, Eragon met Roran's eyes once again. "I abhor politics. If that is the decision I must make, I will choose the dragon… but it is the last thing I want to do, if it were to pit me against the armies of free men this country yet supports."

"Do you have any other choice?"

There was a flicker in the rider's eyes; just a momentary gleam, and then it was gone. "Perhaps. Perhaps there is a sly, simple and untrustworthy way. But perhaps there is that way."

"What is it?"

"How much sway do you hold with Jörmunder?"

Roran was taken aback, nearly physically forced a step away. "Jörmunder? As much amount as I deserve, I'd say, which is a fair share. I could never convince him to move armies, though. What is it to you?"

"Today Nasuada received word back from Orik, from the messengers who first took word to him about the hatching of the green egg. I intend to contact him myself and implore him to persuade Nasuada of the rightness of my argument. The dwarf king is a valuable ally; she may be less inclined to refuse him than I…"

"You've yet lost me. Jörmunder isn't the dwarf king, and Orik has nothing to do with anything I could do to help."

There was a look on the dragon rider's face Roran recognized; he'd seen it dozens of times as they hunted whilst still young… still innocent… a look Eragon put on his face only when he was revealing something meant to be spectacular. "Islanzadí would agree with whatever the bidding of her daughter were, and I am confident Orik will concur with me, as well… if the two monarchs of her greatest allies were against her, and her chief commander as well… what would you do in her situation, Roran?"

"You want me to ask Jörmunder to support your standpoint." His voice was deadpan, and he meant in no other way. He distinctly felt as if he were delivering the punch-line to someone else's joke.

"All of Saphira's life," Eragon said, and his eyes were once again dallying on the wind, "the two of us have been caught in the world where people tug us one way or another for their own gain or image. It has been too long we have not decided the way we were meant to decide. I'm tired of this process. Therefore, I'm going to exploit it."

The smile on the face of his cousin was so victorious—so genuinely _good_—it was enough to convince Roran to follow the blue rider anywhere.

"I will get you what you ask for," Eragon said. "Fear not of that. That will use up my favor with Nasuada. But… in the meantime, we're going to play a political game."


	26. 25: When Lines End

**November 8. So much closer than I thought it would ever be. Once, I wanted to complete this before that date. Such a foolish dream. I wonder how many readers I'll still have on November 9…**

**So… this and the next chapter were originally planned as a single one, but it grew so long in essence that I decided to split it. The next one is not yet written, and both of these might be a little shorter than usual, but I felt as if this little episode would be best explained in two parts.**

**Thanks to reviewers: Castaway5, Dagibsta, IronMikeTyson, BokitoProof, Tsukune08, TheJasAlex, Rise Against713, Hikari Urania, Halcyon5, Lynne Cullen, and xxx.**

**Disclaimer: Too pessimistic and tired to own a sad pillow. You're right, that was irrelevant and senseless.**

**25**

**When Lines End**

"I wasn't sure he'd agree," Eragon told Arya, lying on his side on the floor of his tent, Saphira dozing in the background. The elf sat cross-legged beside the blue rider, Faölin sprawled out in front of her. She was in the process of expanding his rapidly-evolving vocabulary, and Eragon was sure she was catching perhaps only half of what he said. "But, of course, he knew I would take offense, should he refuse. We're blood brothers, after all."

"Orik is wiser than to offend you," Arya replied, her eyes still on the dragon, "but that is not why he agreed to your proposal."

Faölin huffed, heat streaming from his mouth, warming Eragon from where he sat a few yards away. The green dragon was large; he barely fit in the blue rider's tent any longer. Eragon could sense the young creature's desire to bear his own destined rider in flight, and it was clear that such a fantasy was only days from becoming reality. Through his own permitted dalliances with Faölin's consciousness, Eragon could tell he would grow to be a magnificent warrior, as cunning as Saphira and brutally strong. He almost thought the carried traits ironic, since Arya, the rider, fought primarily with speed and precision, instead of fire and might.

He had also known precisely why Orik had agreed. "So you share my view… he would rather Nasuada not have complete control over both of us. He doesn't trust her enough for that."

_Would you?_

Arya froze, and Eragon's eyebrows slowly rose of their own accord. Saphira even opened her eyes, but Faölin merely glanced to the blue rider for an answer, as if he hadn't even realized the question had come from his own mind.

Eragon allowed his smile to form on his face, curving up the corners of his mouth. It was the warmest he had felt in days. Aloud, he answered, "That question, while moot and pointless, has an answer I cannot speak aloud. Suffice it to say, young one, that I am not as unwary of those around me as I was not long ago. Everything—_everything_—hangs here in the balance."

As Saphira laid herself back down, she blinked her eyes closed and then winked at Eragon, her gaze mocking and teasing at the same time. Only for him to hear, she chuckled. _Look at you, Eragon-elda._

_Shut up. _The smile disappeared, for a reason he couldn't identify. He glanced away from his dragon and her green counterpart, at the tent wall, as if trying to erase something from his mind. What it was, he couldn't have said. Abruptly, he felt his heart seize in a wave of nostalgic pain, more dull than it was intrusive and gripping.

Thankfully, neither Arya nor Faölin seemed to have noticed his reaction. Arya reached out and laid a hand over her dragon's snout, and the green hatchling grunted affectionately, content. "I've never seen a piece of life so eager to take to the sky," she murmured, so softly Eragon half-believed she had spoken in his mind instead of aloud. He felt the glow of her love for the green dragon for the briefest moment, and the power behind its magnitude was large enough to raise his eyebrows for a second time in as many minutes.

_I would not doubt he has grown enough_, Saphira said, to all three of them. Her dragoness eyes traveled lengthwise across Faölin's body, a task that no longer was simple. His body stretched the full four or five yards from the flap of his tent to where his head rested in Arya's lap. _I did not grow so rapidly as he, but I carried Eragon for the first time before I had reached this size._

"And perhaps he will soon have great need to bear you, as Saphira did the first time we flew," Eragon added. He blinked, and the conversation of moments previous returned. "And so it remains to be seen if your mother can change my lady's mind. I fear Jörmunder will have less luck, even should he agree with Roran's claim."

He glanced at Arya, only to find her attention already on him. She reached out to him with her mind, and after a surprised moment of puzzlement he dropped his protective walls. _Svit-kona?_

_What if she refuses?_

_You know what I am willing to do, _Eragon replied. Faölin rested his head contentedly against Arya's leg, oblivious to her rider's occupation. Saphira pretended wonderfully to be uncomfortable and requiring a noisy shift in her position, though she heard every word in his head.

He had explained his intention to her before, and had felt her surprise at the lengths to which he was willing to go. For the first time, however, he felt her hesitation—her uncertainty—as it unintentionally entered her tone. _Should you break her favor, Eragon… You would lose her trust forever._

_Arya. You should know by now that I realize the simple truths in the world. I will no-doubt always be young to you… but I am not so young as I once was._

He stared into her eyes; deep. So deep that he almost lost himself in them, as he always desired to do, and never had the opportunity to do. Whenever he caught her gaze, it never failed to be fleeting, a simple touch of her stare before it was off to look at better things. Now, however, he felt locked in the depth of her fixed expression, and green clashed desperately with brown as their minds mingled freely with each other…

_Sometimes_, she whispered. _Sometimes, you still are._

And then she withdrew swiftly from their connection.

He blinked, glancing towards Saphira. Her sympathetic eyes and strangling yawn were her own personal gestures that she understood how much he hated it when his elf companion did that; nearly let him beneath her armor and then rebuke him at the last moment. He verified that his facial expression remained neutral and showed nothing of his displeasure and angst. It mattered not, in any case, as Arya's attention had returned to Faölin and seemed focused intentionally only in that direction.

_She is very grateful for what you are willing to do to protect him, _Saphira said, only to her partner-of-mind. Eragon glanced over at her, and then back to the scene of the green hatchling and rider. _She does not speak it, but she understands now just how much she owes to you._

_Perhaps she understands what she thinks she should,_ Eragon replied. _But she does what I try to dissuade the others from doing all of the time. I am a Dragon Rider. I'm supposed to make the sacrifices for others. It is not a sacrifice of myself that I make so that this hatchling may grow to maturity, but a stake I am obligated to pay so that we all may one day live in freedom. _That _is no sacrifice. It is a task I gladly undertake._

_That doesn't mean she won't feel guilty when you lose the trust of your liegelord and become even more ensnared in a game you never wanted to play in the first place._ Saphira opened an eye just long enough to convey the sincerity with which she spoke, although Eragon was still doubtful of her words.

At length, he simply nodded, a sort of concession and dodging at the same time. He then glanced towards the green hatchling. It was true that the creature was magnificent, although he was sure it was not in comparison to Saphira—no creature competed in that category. Nevertheless, the color of his scales, the lancing of his muscles… it all formed together to create a stunning picture of dragon, one Eragon had little doubt would soon strike fearsome horror inside many soldiers of the Empire. And the link with his rider, the most important part of being dragon and rider, was healthier than Eragon could have possibly hoped it to be.

Uninvited, he felt a twinge of bitterness spawn in his heart. Saphira felt it, too, as it unknowingly ricocheted throughout his thoughts and a grimace popped into existence across his face. As quickly as it came, Eragon tried to stamp it from existence, but instead it expanded, so much so that he could not hide it from she that shared his consciousness.

_Resentment_, Saphira breathed, and he made half-effort to throw her from his mind. It didn't work, nor had he expected it to or especially desired it. _Even jealousy. And… shame._

_Yes, shame, _Eragon snapped.

_Shame of something entirely cruel? _Saphira pondered to him, although they both knew she was stalling pointlessly. She knew everything he felt, and exactly why he felt he felt it, just as much as he did, himself. _Or shame of your resentment?_

_I have no right to be resentful. I am certainly not jealous._

Saphira grumbled, deep in her chest, so low only Eragon, who was accustomed to such sounds, could hear it. _You have cold emotion in your heart, little one. It is not necessary for you to hide it when it will only consume you inside._

Eragon glared at her, physically. _I have no right to feel this way. He just chose his name; he didn't know its significance, or why she offered it._

_But you take offense to it._

He averted his gaze, lest she saw too much of what she couldn't already feel through their bond. _I don't take offense. I don't blame the hatchling. I don't blame anyone. I'm not _angry _at anyone. I can't tell you exactly what I'm feeling, and I wish it would just disappear. I don't want to feel this way._

_You resent that she offered it to him_, Saphira crowed, in a mental tone obviously meant to be calming. _As a choice. Because it meant she still thinks of him, even when all she should think of is you._

Eragon stiffened. _That is _not _what I said. She thinks of whatever she thinks of, and she does it freely. I have no control over what happens in her mind, nor do I desire it. She should be free to make her own choices, as she is._

Saphira blinked at him, and he noticed the glint of relation even out of the corner of his eye. _But you wish she hadn't._

He turned his stare back to her. A long moment passed where the two partners-of-mind simply held each others' gazes silently. Finally, he sighed in their minds. _I can't control the way I feel about her, and I can't change the past. I have no right to have these feelings, but I do, and I hate myself for it. If she loved him, Faölin was a glorious person. If this hatchling accepted his name as its own, then it will become just as great of a being as the elf was. I will not voice displeasure spurned only from unrequited affection, especially when it could only be detrimental to us in this instance. It is my pain alone, and it is neither prominent nor of consequence. She loves him. _He stared at the hatchling. _And he loves her._

_You should not hate yourself, little one, _his partner-of-mind urged gently. _No matter whether or not you feel your thoughts are justified. It is punishment enough that you keep this to yourself. Do not worsen it with internal sorrow._

He wasn't sure he believed her words, but he sent a wash of affection swimming through their link anyway. At least her words chose not to patronize him in this instance, as he had been afraid they would. He blinked and shook his head to regain his physical mindset, returning his eyes to an active stance. Turning his gaze away from the hatchling, however, only proved more unsettling.

Arya was staring at him, her eyes narrowed in confusion. "You are quiet. Are you all right?"

For some reason, he thought the color of her emerald pupils was sharper today, in the dull light of a dark tent on a cool winter day. Shivering, despite being quite comfortable in the temperature, he forced himself to look away, as nonchalantly as he hoped possible. "Yes, I'm fine. Preoccupied."

"Eragon," she breathed, and her name knocked away his resolve. He glanced up at her, and instantly wished he hadn't. The grin slipping over her expression threw aside another erected barrier in his chest, and he felt his heart ache. He listened to her voice as if under enchantment. "Sometimes I believe it would be best if you stopped thinking. You will get us nowhere if you constantly fixate on issues you are currently making no move to solve. Especially in times like now."

"How can you say that?" Eragon said, not unkindly or snappishly. "Everything depends on moments. Every one of ours is precious."

Her grinned only increased a fraction. "Come here."

He was relatively sure his heart stopped beating. He felt his jaw go slack; he forgot how to feel, and wasn't sure if it was hanging open or not. "What?"

"I said," Arya repeated, slowly, a hand on her dragon and her dragon's eyes on him, "to come here." Threateningly, she held up a fist, palm up, and extended her index finger. As if mockingly, she slowly moved the digit in a beckoning gesture twice. "Now."

Saphira's amusement could not be contained through their link; he was fairly certain it spilled out to any mind that cared to listen. For once, however, Eragon chose to ignore her, as ecstatically trapped in the moment as he was. With no small amount of horror, he climbed rather unsteadily to his feet, intentionally lengthening the two-step journey to her side to reign in his turbulent chest butterflies. Her eyes followed him, the grin in place like a beacon for his direction, and he felt much smaller than he actually was as he lowered himself back to the ground beside her. Faölin was curled up at her feet once more, and had Eragon in sight, as well. He could only imagine what kind of conversations were crossing between rider and dragon. The blue rider's heartbeat was thudding as if the elf had instead thrown off all of her clothing and tackled him to the bed; if she couldn't hear it, he didn't doubt it was detectable through the vibrations in the ground.

The expression he wore must have been rather strange, for a gleam of amusement flared into her gaze as he settled himself. "Turn around."

Wordlessly, he did as bade. Saphira watched him with a warily cautious stare, still trying to tamper down her amusement. He turned himself on the ground, so he was facing away from the elf. His lungs involuntarily took a shuddering breath, and it was only just within his ability to pass it off as a deep sigh. The sharp intake of air that accompanied her hands resting on his back, however, was impossible to shield.

He felt their contact first on his shoulder blades, and, while it was not as if she'd ever touched him before, the covert softness of her fingertips brushing across his body knocked the wind from his chest as if a dragon had kicked him in the breastbone. Inevitably, every muscle in his body tensed of its own accord. In response, her hands hesitated for a split second before cautiously moving over the surface of his tunic again.

"Relax," she whispered, her lips inches from his pointed ears. It took a great amount of effort to resist the impulse to gasp at her proximity. "You have to relax, Eragon. I am trying to help you relax."

Yet, what she was doing nearly made it impossible to do so. It wasn't an intimate touch, nor something he was unfamiliar with, but the way she was going about what she was doing made it almost agonizing for him; her fingers grazed over the fabric as if they were in direct contact with his skin, and every spot they touched on his back erupted like fire. Her hands began to trace invisible patterns, snaking their way to and fro behind him. He hadn't the slightest idea what she was doing, but after the cycle had repeated itself a few times he began to notice his back involuntarily beginning to loosen.

Eragon closed his eyes, wondering if Arya had yet to discern the internal inferno she was startling with her movements. This mere contact, tiny circles of her skin dancing lightly over his, was throwing his entire mind out of balance. It was shooting stars across his vision, sending electric spurts of movement throughout the distant nerves of his limbs. Sparks flared in his chest every second, tingling and threatening to reveal his state.

_If she was trying to calm and quiet your mind_, Saphira teased, _she seems to have the exact opposite effect._

Eragon ignored her, trying to focus his energy on a specific thought. In a cruel twist of irony, the only snatch topic he could center his mind around while under her unexpected and lethal influence was the hope that she was unaware of what she was doing to him. For what it was worth, it seemed that she didn't. Her motions never slowed or differed, the patterns continually tracing and tracing, his muscles loosening and loosening.

Abruptly, he became aware again, his world not restricted to the sensation of her fingers crossing his back. It took him several seconds after he opened his eyes, however, to realize that he had regained his senses because she had stopped. Even as this realization hit him, he felt her palms press lightly, soft as a swan's feathers, into his shoulder blades.

"Better?" she murmured behind him, and he could still feel the smile on her voice.

"Yes," he replied, although, speaking the honest truth to any who occupied his mind, he wasn't sure whether or not her treatment had been for the better or worse. "What was that?"

Her hands left his back. Instantly, he felt as if his body temperature had dropped ten degrees. Or that he had been stabbed in the heart by a shade's blade. There were several moments of pause, and more a moment he half-believed she had left the tent, too frightened for this possibility to turn around and check. Finally, Arya replied, in a much more distant voice, "Faölin used to do that for me when I had difficulty sleeping."

Eragon saw the hatchling's body shift as his name was spoken, not realizing he was not the one of whom was being spoken. The blue rider, on the other hand, felt another shade's blade enter his chest, and found himself wishing a third had severed his vocal cords before he had had a chance to ask a question with such an undesirable answer. "Ah," he murmured. If his voice were any louder, he feared that bitterness would seep into the tone. "You replicate it well."

She said nothing in return.

Saphira grunted. Eragon cringed inwardly and cursed himself. He would have turned around to face her, but he wasn't sure she wanted to face _him_ at this particular moment of time. "Arya, I'm sorry—"

"Eragon," she whispered. He froze. "It matters not. What is done is done. Whether or not you believe it so, I have grown to accept the losses of more people than you have ever had the chance to meet. I shall not mourn the past any longer."

He knew exactly where her right hand rested; he could sense it, lying against her knee less than six inches off his right hip. He was seized by an overwhelming urge to reach out and take it in his own hand. To prevent himself from doing so, he rose to his feet, much less clumsily than he had been going down, and paced himself to an appropriate distance away from her.

When he turned to face her, he caught her eye instantly, and smiled guardedly. "Thank you. Whatever it was, it helped."

To his surprise, a strange smile wider than his own curled around her eyes. "If for nothing else, at least it got your mind off the war…"

Before he even got the opportunity to decipher what she meant, a sharp rapping echoed into the tent. Saphira's head turned towards the flap of the tent, where the pole had been knocked, quickly followed by Eragon's own. The two shared a glance, and then the rider turned back to Arya. She had quickly averted her eyes, so that eye contact was no longer possible.

Strangely enough, the mysterious smile had not left her expression.

Frowning, Eragon called, "Enter."

It was a young messenger girl, no more than fifteen, her brown hair caught up in a braid slung over her right shoulder. She bowed low upon entry, before righting herself. She said, "Rider Eragon, Lady Nasuada requests your presence in her tent, immediately."

In an action completely different from when it had occurred beneath Arya's touch, Eragon's heart skipped several beats. "Did she give a reason for her request?"

"No, sir. She stresses immediately, however, sire."

_The moment we anticipate finally arrives_, Saphira murmured in his mind, and he agreed. All of his recent plotting—his conversations with Orik, his beseeching of Islanzadí, his late-night expunges with Roran—was about to be rewarded, or come completely unraveled. And, depending on whichever outcome reality had chosen the form of, too in the balance was his relationship with Nasuada, and, too, the Varden itself. He glanced at Arya, whose expression had finally returned to neutral, and then at Faölin, who was regarding the newcomer to the tent with disinterest but also appeared in conversation with his rider.

Eragon turned back to the messenger and nodded, slowly. "Please inform Lady Nasuada I will be there shortly. Thank you."

The messenger girl bowed once more, and then in turn to Arya, Saphira, and Faölin. As Eragon watched the interesting gestures, the messenger girl left, and he calmly let an audible sigh escape his lips.

"I will return immediately after our meeting concludes," he breathed to Arya. The elf and her dragon glanced at him, a twin glint of emerald, and she returned the nod he gave to her. Her eyes held his for an additional moment, and it was a gesture not ill-received.

_Well wishes, Eragon-elda,_ Faölin said, and Eragon couldn't help but smile.

_Thank you, Faölin_. With a final grin at the hatchling, he turned to face his partner-of-mind. She remained curled through her opening of the tent, but familiarity only their link provided revealed to him the raucous tension lining her muscles. He crossed the floor to lay a hand on her snout, lowering his forehead to rest beside it. _Will you join me, or would you care to remain here with Arya and Faölin?_

_Do you wish me to come with you? _she said, blinking back at him.

_I can manage on my own if you would rather stay_, he replied, stroking her scales as he removed his head from her own. _But I wouldn't mind you listening in._

_I would never allow you to have this conversation unless I was inside your head to supervise, _she said, huffing a cloud of smoke past his close face. _Should you find need of my presence, however, don't hesitate to call on me._

_I won't, _Eragon promised, and with a final smile he passed his partner-of-mind, Arya and her own soul companion, and left the tent, pausing only to pull a cloak over his shoulders and strap Brisingr to his belt.

The snow-covered ground made crunching noises with every footfall as he stepped into the bitter air of the outside and began his journey between the tents. Compared to the activity immediately after Belatona's capture, the camp and city were severely diminished in terms of manpower. Few now walked between tents in the day, save the guards that now patrolled endlessly and those who conjured the distant sounds of axes at work. As Eragon left the tents and passed quickly through the city gates, activity picked up slightly, but in the city the effect was still visible; the presence of the Varden made the citizens less willing to go about their normal routines, and, besides that point, it was not a very warm day.

It took him less time than he thought it would to traverse the city's virtually empty streets and arrive at the governor's house. He passed the gates and entered the home with nods to the guards stationed at both posts, and allowed himself to be led to Nasuada's council chamber by a butler. At the doors to the room he waited beside the Nighthawks, while one of them passed through to inform Nasuada of his arrival. A moment later, he was allowed entry.

The chamber was largely unadorned. From the twin doors that were flanked by a pair of Nighthawks, a long red carpet led forth to where Nasuada sat, in a grand-carved chair atop a raised platform. On either side of the carpet stretched long tables lined on both sides with chairs, and the walls were painted fantastically with what looked like Alagaësian history—only, it also appeared that the paintings were recent. _Galbatorix' version of history_, Eragon thought bitterly, eyeing them as he traversed the path forward, glaring at the harsh battles and blood they showed beneath the flickering of several dozen torch brackets.

He arrived before Nasuada's chair and bowed, acting as courteous as he thought was still respectful. "You summoned me, my Lady?"

He had been aware of the ebony-skinned woman's stare since the second he stepped into the room, but only now did she set aside the piece of parchment she had been evidently regarding moments before. Her expression was neutral with the skill of a military commander, and Eragon could not have deciphered the thoughts running through her head, even if he had deigned to try. He waited for her to speak, and with every passing moment began to wonder whether or not he was quite prepared for whatever she was about to tell him.

Finally, she reacted. Her eyes left his, and glanced over his shoulder, towards the doors he had come through not a minute before. "Nighthawks, please leave us."

Eragon kept his eyes on Nasuada as he digested this command, abruptly not knowing what he had walked into. So far, this meeting was not turning out to be anything like he had expected, and he was no longer sure he could easily gain the upper hand if necessary. If his liegelord was asking her guards to leave their conversation, then perhaps there was more to be spoken here than he had previously weighed or imagined.

Behind him, he sensed the guards hesitate and heard them stutter. "My Lady," one of them, a human, said. "We are not to leave you under any circumstances—"

"I am with the Rider, Trenton," Nasuada replied, as if it were a grand solution to any problem. Despite this, the look on her face as she locked her dark eyes to Eragon's made it seem as if it were anything but. "I am more than sufficiently protected."

There was a further moment's pause, and then the sounds of respects and the scuffling of departure, followed by the closing of the large door, met Eragon's ears. In the space of moments, these noises faded to stillness, and it was silent in the chamber. It was warm enough to be comfortable, but Eragon, nevertheless, thought the air rather cold. Nasuada continued to stare down at him from her perch, her hands clasped in her lap, and he waited patiently for her to explain his presence.

Eventually, it seemed waiting grew tired even for the Varden's leader. Sighing, she spoke. "I seem not to have given you enough credit as a schemer as I should have, Eragon. For that, I apologize."

Eragon froze, willing himself to remain neutral in appearance. "My Lady? Excuse me?"

"I know you don't agree with me when I choose to keep the green dragon with the Varden for the winter, for both its protection and ours," Nasuada murmured. "I know you believe I'm making a grave error and I imagined you would silently oppose me even when the matter was long-decided and irreversible."

"My Lady," Eragon said, working through a pause in her words. "Forgive me. I don't understand why we are discussing this."

Nasuada surveyed him, and began speaking again. His question was not answered, and, he realized listening to her words, he hadn't expected it to be. "I understand Islanzadí's misgivings about such a plan, even a little bit of prodding from her direction to sway me over to the other side of possibilities. Especially when her daughter is the newest free rider of Alagaësia, a bit of misgiving over human protection is understandable from the elves…"

Eragon remained silent. It was just as well, for he wouldn't have been able to insert even a single word anyway before his liegelord pushed forward, continuing to speak. Her voice gained a pitch level as she went. "What I hadn't expected is for Orik to go to the trouble of personally messaging me with the intent to discuss the details about the green dragon's whereabouts. It was slightly surprising for me to hear him so adamantly speak about the dwarves that still don't seem to appreciate the alliance we have with the elves and they, and that if it were common knowledge that the dragon remained with the Varden's winter camp in Belatona, he feared some of his less-supportive constituents may just seek out this dragon and take their matter of hatred into their own hands. Of course, I told him I would take his concerns into my own consideration, although I was slightly curious why he seemed so interested when even a fully-grown dwarf warrior seems no match for a hatchling, much less the wrath of Eragon and Saphira should anyone try and attack the newest dragon. Or the fact that we rest a hundred leagues from the nearest dwarven settlement. Nevertheless… do you not find Orik's concerns out-of-place, Eragon? Why do you think the green dragon's arrangements startle him so?"

Eragon raised his eyebrows, doing his best to look conjectural and puzzled. "I haven't seen Orik in months, my Lady, but he has always been a steadfast supporter of the alliance with the Varden. If I were in his place, I would be determined to keep any advantage over the Empire as safe as was possible. Perhaps he just wants to be sure we have all of our precautions as best placed as we can."

"Perhaps," Nasuada replied, sounding unconvinced. "I suppose Orik is very cautious, as far as dwarves can be, that is." She descended into silence for a moment, and Eragon thought perhaps she was rethinking her words. Then she took another breath to speak again, and he discovered that this hypothesis was quite wrong indeed. "But while an elf queen's nightmares and a dwarf king's misgivings make perfect sense to me, but _really_ gave me pause is when my army commander requested an audience to discuss… lo and behold! the green dragon."

Eragon did his best to look surprised, but knew that it didn't matter how good of an actor he was; it would almost be better for him now to remain perfectly neutral, especially because it seemed that Nasuada was not finished speaking.

"And, forthright, it wasn't even _he_ that was particularly upset regarding the arrangements, but those of some of his high-ranking _officers_, one of whom just happens to be—by _my_ appointment—your cousin, Eragon, Roran Stronghammer. It seems as if, from what Jörmunder was telling me, not only do some of his captains feel wary about having the dragon so close to enemy lines while it is so young, they are also worried that since it is so young and unused to human company, it may attack them when they ill-prepared to defend themselves against an ally."

She paused long enough to stare at him piercingly, and then cleared her throat and continued. He made no move to change his expression or intervene in-between her words. "This all, coming from men who have spent their fighting lives cheering on Saphira, who came to us as a young dragon herself, as she clashes with scores of demons and enemies they will never then have to face, drinking to their own health after the newest dragon addition to the world hatched just so recently. Being told by a commander who doesn't personally share these feelings of wariness, but instead feels it is his right by position to pass on to me whatever may concern his officers—which, apparently, the location of the young, green hatchling certain does!"

He managed to retain eye contact as her voice escalated past control, into a shout. Remaining motionless, he allowed her once more to continue. For a moment, he was even fearful of what may happen should he try to intervene. He could feel Saphira's tension in the back of his mind as Nasuada took a deep breath, before going on. "My father, inevitably, made me quite suspicious of everything around me at a young age, since, even when I was a little girl, most of everything, wherever I went, was trying to kill me. It wasn't until I came to the Varden that I had any sense of a safe haven… but even then, I couldn't quite rid myself of the feeling that everything around me was trying to manipulate me—which, as it turns out in these dark days, almost everything is. So, you can obviously understand my suspicion in this case, when I received three requests, and two remarkably unforeseen ones, to change my mind about a matter I feel is one of the most important to the Varden today. And it didn't take me very long to identify the commonality of the cases, or the meager steps it would take to fulfill this thing I suspected as I plot."

Eragon held his head high, prepared to deflect any accusations she may spring upon him, although he knew it was inevitable. A grim sense of finality had set about his heart, and he was already preparing himself for the fact that he would have to leave the Varden very shortly, without the permission of his liegelord. Much as it was necessary, he would have rather done anything in his power than sever the ties he had. In this case, however, with Nasuada glaring harmfully down from her heightened seat, he was being left with no choice in the matter.

When it was clear that the rider would not answer her subtle attack, Nasuada sighed. For the first time since she had begun speaking, she turned her gaze away from Eragon, looking towards the high, expertly-carved ceiling. "I am not a fool, Eragon. Do you take me for a fool?"

"No, my Lady."

Her head snapped, her eyes flashed; despite his confidence and determination, Eragon found immediate difficulty in holding the heavy stare. The reproach in her expression nearly drove him to shame, despite believing completely in his destined actions. "Then why, Eragon… why would you try and put this dishonesty past me? Tell me why you have done this."

For a second Eragon considered denying her further accusations. They were alone, however—stretching his consciousness out, he verified there were no eavesdroppers at the doors or in adjacent chambers—and he didn't exactly have her fooled. "My Lady, I respect you and admire you in grave matters of state and war. However, this is a matter of neither, a matter of dragons, instead, and, as such, I believe it would be proper to defer to my judgment. As you did not, and I cannot risk the green dragon's life, my hand was forced in the situation. Would you not have done the same thing, Nasuada?"

"I cannot say," Nasuada replied, her eyes spewing fire into the surrounding environment. "Regardless of what I would have chosen to do in your situation, however, Eragon, _you_ have made your decision to act against my wishes."

"My Lady," he cut in, making sure to time his intrusion directly between her words, so as to minimize the magnitude of his interruption. "I have not acted against your wishes. The commands you gave me have been followed to the letter."

"But you scheme to undermine me, Eragon!" she cried. She slid to the front of her chair as she spoke, her hands seizing and gripping the ends of the armrests. Her eyes were furious. "You seek to _undermine_ my authority. You; my vassal! This is a crime, Eragon, a crime with which I have the ability to punish you to the highest severity, short of death."

"Will you?"

She chortled, dry and high on the air. "What do you think I will do, Eragon?"

"You can have me whipped," he replied, coolly calculating his every word. "It would not be an unjust response to such actions by a vassal."

Her glare escalated to a murderous stare. "If I touch you, the soldiers will be in uproar. No, I cannot have you whipped. The army would protest, and the people would protest, and we would have unrest and disarray in the camp while we are fighting a civil war on the front. I cannot punish you, Eragon, as you well know."

He did well know. What she spoke was true; if the dragon rider were being whipped in the streets, it would not be a sign of disobedience and punishment but public martyrdom in a rudely awkward way. It would be a very brief process after that: Nasuada would be questioned, and then doubted. They would then wonder if she were truly acting in their best interests, since had so viciously beat their symbol of hope. There may be a moment of council that was poorly constructed and even more poorly undergone, and then Nasuada would be removed from her position for another person. Another person that Nasuada would not trust to lead the Varden to victory.

There was no other person Nasuada trusted to lead the Varden to victory. "So what should I do?" she repeated. "Where do I go from here? I have pressure from both our allies and my highest commanders to do something I am not comfortable to do, but something my dragon rider and vassal insists is necessary and for the best."

"Perhaps, my Lady, if I may be so bold," Eragon began, treading lightly, "you should do exactly as they bid?"

Her eyes crinkled, reproaching from behind a wall of neutrality. "And what example will I be setting there? That I am a leader that merely follows the crowd in times of difficulty and uncertainty? What sort of message will I be sending?"

"My Lady. There are times when a leader must follow the crowd, because the crowd is what you are fighting for. And, for what it's worth, no one will ever know why you changed your mind, or even that you really did. The leaders of your allies will not doubt you, and the men will concur with your choice no matter what it is. Perhaps, Lady Nasuada, the greatest barrier to your acceptance is the fact that you are unwilling to admit you might be wrong."

Nasuada unexpectedly slammed a fist into her armrest. Anger flared freely across her face. "If you were any other person in this commission, you _would _be whipped for such words in front of your liege."

"Then punish me, my Lady," Eragon urged quietly, holding her eye. "For I will not concede to you in this matter. I promise you, if you do not allow me what I desire, and the hatchling remains with the Varden, it will be dead before the first ice begins to thaw in the spring."

She stared at him, and, for one who had so greatly stood up for the people around him, he felt considerably smaller. Nevertheless, the courage that had grown inside of him each time he faced down Murtagh or rushed into battle on Saphira's back rose up inside of his chest now, and he desperately willed himself not to break eye contact with Nasuada as she coldly regarded him, her fingertips drubbing in sequence over the armrest.

Finally, she sighed. "My pride and personal belief tells me you're wrong. Everything that has previously served me in the positive as the Varden's leader is screaming at me that I have made the right choice, yet everyone who says they are my friend—my own vassals—are telling me I am wrong." She looked away from him then, but didn't cease talking. "If it were merely up to me from this point forward, I would yet refuse you what you ask for."

Eragon heard the hesitation and uncertainty in her voice, and knew that she had meant it to bleed out; Nasuada was far too secure in his presence to let something of blunt nonchalance sink through like so. "It would be a mistake, my Lady."

Without looking at him, she sighed again. "Would it? Of course, it wouldn't matter, would it, Eragon? Either way, the outcome is the same. I have no control over it, do I?"

"My Lady?"

"Look me in the eye, Eragon, and tell me it is not true that no matter what I decide, you and Arya and your dragons will take to the hills and leave us. Tell me that when I refuse you your doubled request, you will not break the oath of fealty and abandon your status as my vassal and the rider of the Varden to protect the life of the dragon you think in danger."

Over the course of several moments, Eragon became aware that his mouth hung open, and he hastened to close it. Despite himself, he was impressed with his liegelord. Even he hadn't anticipated his rather simple plan being disassembled heartlessly in front of his very eyes. "I cannot tell you this, my Lady. For it is the truth."

"As I suspected," Nasuada replied. Her face had transformed as she finally allowed the rage she felt to blanket her expression. "You would break your greatest oath to me, to the honest people of Alagaësia."

"For the life of a dragon, my Lady," he said, keeping his voice as calm as he possibly could, despite the emotion bubbling within, "I would break any oath. To you, to the gods. Your trust matters little to the riders where there are more important matters involved."

Nasuada's lip curled. "So be it. And so this is yet another reason I cannot refuse you. No matter what I think of what the Varden may see in my actions, above all, for the men's pride and hope as much as the tactical advantage it gives us, we cannot lose the blue rider."

"Then you will adhere to my desire, my Lady?"

Her eyes were so narrow that they barely resembled slits. "If I didn't like you so much and you weren't so important to me, I'd kill you, Eragon. In the interests of maintaining peace within the Varden and a victorious hope on the horizon, I will hesitantly, reluctantly, and with great reservations permit you to leave the Varden with the green dragon in order to train it and Arya in the ways of the dragon riders."

Eragon nodded slowly, gravely. "Thank you, my Lady." In as respectful way as he could possibly make it look, he bowed.

"Eragon," Nasuada whispered, and he lifted his eyes to see her watching him without with anger. Instead, there was… almost misery in her glare. "I'm not our enemy. You're not my enemy. I hate to fight you like this. I truly believe it is in the best interests of the Varden to keep Arya's dragon in the presence of all of the Varden's people. I trust you to train it wherever you go, but I would not be as comfortable knowing you were not around."

"You will not be attacked, Nasuada," he replied, adopting her less-formal tone. "It's the dead of winter. Murtagh is dead, Galbatorix has nothing further to hit you wi—"

"I would not feel as comfortable," she repeated, "if you were not around. Regardless of whether or not the Varden were in danger. When you are away from the army, bad things always happen to you."

"I am tied to this army."

"You are tied," Nasuada said, her voice quiet, "to _me_."

Eragon exhaled, having been prepared for this moment and wondering whether or not it would actually present itself. It was an opportunity and a risk, and he hadn't expected to actually use what he had readied. "Perhaps, my Lady, that is a liability you have grown weary of having, just as it has become a burden on myself that is now slightly heavy to carry."

"What exactly do you imply now?" He had a strong feeling she knew exactly what he was implying. It wasn't exactly easy for her to miss.

"My oath of fealty is six months old and many battles and tasks spent," Eragon responded. "I have done as you have bidden in every case. I have served as both rider and your vassal honorably and loyally. My masters are now dead; I am the only free rider who is trained enough to fight. I ask now that you release from my oath. No more will your reputation be tarnished by my actions."

Nasuada stared at him for several moments, almost as if gauging whether or not his words were serious. He listened with elven ears as she sucked in a breath. "After the gravest disloyalty to your liegelord, you ask for release from your service?"

"I have not been disloyal, my Lady. I have tried to change your mind, and it has failed me. I pressured others to join my cause, and they have."

"You acted behind my back."

"I needed to be sure the dragon would be safe—"

"Enough!" Nasuada cried suddenly, and she was on her feet in a flash. She stood over him, threatening to topple off her raised platform should she become any more emotional. Eragon fought to contain himself in response, succeeding only barely. "How can I trust you any longer? You have betrayed me, and now you ask to be discharged from my service with honor! If I grant you such leniency, you will not return to us as the same man. You will no longer be the Eragon we know!"

There was a second of complete silence, and then a moment of incredible hesitation. Rage of an intolerable factor boiled inside of Eragon's mind, and he fought desperately to keep his expression neutral. He lifted his eyes to regard Nasuada, hold her gaze while she glared with shame upon him. Without even fully realizing what he was doing, he felt himself step forward. His foot raised of its own accord and mounted the platform upon which she stood. He towered up to his full height as he came to stand rigid beside her, and turned to face so that his chin hovered near her forehead.

Slowly, he bent down, into her personal space, into her face, and remained there, knowing that the ground he had been so lightly treading moments before had disappeared. So close that their noses were almost touching, he spoke under his breath. "I schemed against you; I worked to do things that were specifically against your will; I have shamed you, I have sometimes perhaps dishonored you; but as your vassal or not, this life or another, I will never—_never_—betray you."

They were still. The rage and fury in her eyes had transformed into astonishment and shock. Eragon waited, knowing his move in their little game had ended, and it was Nasuada's turn that was in-play. He refused to move, quite aware that whether or not he would return to the Varden after his excursion with the dragons depended on these few moments.

While he waited and watched, Nasuada turned and slumped into her chair, staring not at him or at the door; just looking straight forward, into oblivion. "Take the dragon and go. Return to me and the Varden when your business is complete. That is as far as I'll go. Do not ask me for this again."

Eragon shifted his head downward respectfully. "My Lady."


End file.
